


Harry Potter and the Legacy of Magic

by History_On_Repeat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (Harry is the one inflicting them), Apathetic Harry Potter, But he doesn't realize he's Voldemort, Dark Harry, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Ministry Takeover, Eventual Romance, Harry idolizes Tom, Like really slow, M/M, Misguided Albus Dumbledore, OOC Harry Potter, Possessive Behavior, Powerful Harry, Psychological Torture, Psychopath Harry Potter, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherin Politics, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Smart Harry, Violence, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions, he tries his best and means well, intrigued Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2019-06-27 16:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 62,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15688830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/History_On_Repeat/pseuds/History_On_Repeat
Summary: At the age of four, Harry Potter was left on the steps of an orphanage by the Dursleys. He would grow up experiencing the cruelty of children and learning that only the powerful will survive.At the same time, he hears, by chance, mentions a figure worthy of his respect: Tom Marvolo Riddle. Despite the frustratingly lacking information on the elusive ‘mudblood’-turned-‘King of Slytherin’ from decades in the past, Harry is determined to follow in the steps of his role model.Disgusted with the restrictions the Ministry have placed on magical Britain, Harry vows to bring about change and leave his own legacy of magic. But for now, he will earn his rightful place in Hogwarts, even if he has to take the school by storm.





	1. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is left at the Dursleys. The last page to Dumbledore's letter is lost, so the Dursleys are never informed of the importance of keeping Harry. Harry is sent to live at an orphanage.
> 
> Needless to say, it doesn't end well.
> 
> (For the other children)

It was nearly completely dark just beyond the fenced lawns of Number 4, Privet Drive. 

A solemn sort of silence hung in the air, unbroken by the argument that two robed figures seemed to be having in the middle of the road. The aged woman, whose normally strict frown was twisted into a frustrated scowl, made several agitated gestures. The other man, with kindly blue eyes and a long, white beard, stood tiredly, saying nary a word. At their feet was a small basket from which a tuft of dark hair could be seen poking out of several blankets.

Beyond the small bubble of a strong privacy spell, shouting could be heard.

“What do you mean you’re leaving Harry with _them_?” The woman spat out the last word, levelling a venomous glare upon the astoundingly normal house.

“Minerva, you must understand…”

“They’re muggles, Albus. _Of the worst sort_. I’ve watched them all afternoon. And _it says something_ about them that an afternoon is enough to convince me of their _utter incompetence_ and _disgustingly harsh_ bias against anything ‘ _abnormal_ ’!” Minerva McGonagall interjected, with the same fierceness she had levelled upon opponents decades ago. “They are prejudiced, narrow-minded, and they _hate_ any sort of ‘freakishness’. For Merlin’s sake, they are-”

“-The last of Harry’s family,” Albus Dumbledore calmly cut off his colleague’s protests. He turned and regarded the household with fatigued resignation. “Harry Potter _must_ live. But Death Eaters are still about, and he’ll never be as safe as he is under Lily’s protection.”

“Family?” McGonagall shook her head. “No. These muggles will _never_ be family to Harry. Why not the Longbottoms? Or even the Weasleys? He’s even got Black blood, and that’ll sooner link him with the Malfoys. I’d bet Gryffindor’s sword that even they’d treat him better; Harry’s family, and they’d be under too much scrutiny if they let anything happen to him under their care.”

“It can’t be done,” Dumbledore sighed, sounding older than he had in years. “They must be of _Lily’s_ blood. It was her sacrifice that built these wards. Harry won’t be safer elsewhere.”

“What about Sirius Black? You and I both know he didn’t betray the Potters. The Ministry will sort the whole mess out. The Black estate is unplottable. It is just as safe as any forbidden blood wards,” McGonagall argued, but the conviction in her voice was dwindling. It was clear that she was fighting a losing battle.

A moment of silence passed before Dumbledore closed his eyes. “People change. We’ll never know what truly happened this night. We can never truly trust Black again.”

McGonagall was stunned beyond anger. “You can’t seriously be suggesting-”

“It is a possibility, that’s all I’m saying. Besides, Harry will be better off growing up in the muggle world.”

“How?” McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “You’re setting him up for a decade of abuse, Albus!”

A shriek drew both their attentions to a spindly woman within the house, cooing at a lumpy bundle. However, the baby’s loud wails didn’t cease. If anything, the noise only increased, reaching a sharp crescendo. 

“That boy will grow up to be a brute,” McGonagall murmured. “It’s hard to imagine a Potter having any ties with _them_. How this ever compare with what _our_ world has to offer?”

“Fame can cloud the mind,” Dumbledore said softly, eyes shifting to the basket by their feet. “It can make one arrogant, proud, and by extension, careless. It would be better for Harry to grow up away from all that. Harry can grow up unburdened by his name…He won’t have to deal with his fame before he is ready. He can see a bit of both worlds, and then he would know better than to hold a prejudice against his muggle blood. After all, they have television and video games and the best candies. What more could a child want?” The old man smiled, attempting to bring some lightness into the conversation.

McGonagall looked unconvinced. “I still think you are making a mistake. Knowing the Dursleys, they’d turn Harry out on their doorsteps before he could even learn to say ‘ _Lumos_ ’.”

Dumbledore slipped an envelope out of one of his robe’s many pockets and handed it to the other professor. “Voldemort poses as much a threat to Harry’s extended family as he does to the boy himself. I’ve left them a letter that should explain everything.”

The frowning witch took the envelope and opened it, quickly skimming through its contents. 

“I still think you’re making a mistake, Albus,” McGonagall exhaled deeply, folding the few pages of the letter in half and tucking it next to the sleeping form of Harry Potter. She wordlessly handed the envelope back to Dumbledore, then turned an apologetic gaze to the small boy. 

“It is for the best,” the older wizard slumped. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recalled a similar case of an orphaned boy, who grew up learning to hate and to hurt. 

He promptly put the thought out of his mind. 

Young Harry, son of sweet Lily and mischievous but well-meaning James, would never grow up to be anything like _him_. He would know, if not love, then at least the care of a blood-related family. Petunia may have envied Lily, but they were still sisters in the end. Now, with Lily gone, she would at the very least honour her legacy that lives in her son.

More importantly, Harry would grow up knowing to appreciate friendships and love and the magic of…well, _magic_. Few children that grew up in the wizarding world ever share the fierce sense of wonder muggleborns does. Dumbledore could only hope that little Harry will never take what life has to offer for granted. 

“Let’s just hope that I’ve worried over nothing,” McGonagall muttered as Dumbledore cancelled the privacy charms and walked across the lawn to set the basket on the Dursleys’ steps.

Dumbledore agreed, and gazed one last time into the face of the boy who reminded him so much of the younger James Potter, before turning and Disapparting without a sound.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As fate would have it, the Dursleys woke an hour later than usual the next morning, and that would make all the difference in the world.

Harry opened his eyes at promptly 7:30 am and realized at once that he was not where he had been when he had fallen asleep. The ancient halls and high ceilings of their house in Godric’s Hollow had been replaced by a neatly trimmed lawn and whitewashed fences. Harry’s arm flailed and he grabbed the first thing that his chubby hands came in contact with, which just happened to be a page from the 3-page letter that Dumbledore had left. 

He gurgled and fidgeted. 

Once the ink covered parchment no longer held any interest to him, his fist loosened and he laughed as the wind carried it away.

Half an hour later Petunia would open the door and let out a blood-curdling scream. 

Another hour would pass before Petunia and Vernon Dursley would sit down at the dining table, staring down at the baby with wide, unnaturally green eyes. Petunia’s eyes were reddened, but a good cry had already taken the edge off of the brief grief she had felt at her sister’s passing. Dumbledore’s letter-or at least what was left of it-sat on atop the table. Both Dursley’s eyes drifted to anywhere but there, avoiding the topic of their inevitable discussion.

“We have to keep him.” Petunia was the first to break the silence.

“And let him bring his freakishness into our perfect, normal house? I think not.” Vernon muttered darkly.

“Please, Vernon,” Petunia’s eyes glistened again. “My sister is dead. _Dead_! I can’t cast her son out when he’s still so young in good conscience. At least give it a few years.”

Vernon opened his mouth as if to protest, but upon seeing his wife’s tear streaked face his eye twitched and he fell silent. Finally, he turned with some difficulty to look upon the parchments on the table. 

“Did Dumberbell at least mention why he’d been placed with us and not one of _their_ kind?” Vernon asked through gritted teeth. 

The mistaken name went uncorrected. 

Petunia slowly shook her head and swallowed. “No. He just said that L-Lily and her husband James were…were k-killed in some sort of attack. And that we are the only family Harry has left. They’d be coming back to pick him up when he’s eleven…to _that_ place.”

Vernon’s face paled considerably at the mention of Hogwarts.

“The letter cut off pretty abruptly,” Petunia continued, dabbing a few remaining tears from her cheek. “I think he meant to write more but forgot. But what do we do now?”

In unison, the couple turned and met Harry’s sharp gaze. The boy was only one, but he’s already seemed to master that solemnly blank expression to an art form. Another sign of his freakishness, Vernon supposed.

“Four years.”

“Four years?” Petunia looked up, confused.

“We’ll keep him until he’s four. Then you’ll have more than fulfilled any obligations as…as _her_ sister. We can drop him off at youth services then. How’s that?” Vernon compromised and was rewarded when Petunia gave him a watery smile.

“Thank you, Vernon. Then that’s what we’ll do.”

The basket was carried into the broom cupboard and the doors were shut. Harry stared alone into the darkness. His hand twitched and suddenly, brilliant orbs of light filled the small space, hovering and flickering like stars in the night sky. Harry giggled and gradually closed his eyes to the soft glow of his own magic.

In the kitchen, Petunia and Vernon Dursley sat, already discussing possible arrangements for when Harry turns four. They remained blissfully oblivious of the Dark Lord and the blood wards. While the Dursleys plotted and Harry slept, the wizarding world celebrated the fall of Lord Voldemort, unaware of the consequences that an incomplete letter would bring about a decade in the future.

 

 

* * *

 

Harry Potter was three, almost four, and he understood several things.

One, he lived, ate, and slept at Number 4, Privet Drive, but that was not ‘home’. He would not stay; his aunt and uncle had made that perfectly clear.

Two, he was an orphan. That meant that his parents were _dead_ , that they weren’t coming back. The young Harry still couldn’t quite wrap his head around the concept of death yet, but he understood well enough what that meant. There was no one left in the world who would treat him the way Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon treated Dudley. 

Three, he wasn’t _normal_. In fact, he was as far as normal as he could possibly be. He was a _freak_. In fact, that may have been the least upsetting of all those few facts. If his uncle, aunt, and cousin were considered to be normal, then perhaps not being normal was a good thing.

Four, strange things tended to happen around him. The first time he had been conscience of it was when he was about to be hit in the face by a toy truck Dudley had thrown. He willed the truck to stop, and it did. In mid air. Dudley had gaped, Vernon had paled and sputtered angrily, and Petunia had screamed. Harry watched, fascinated, as the truck wobbled, then crashed to the floor as he loosened his mental hold on it. He hadn't gotten dinner that night.

Soon it became clear that no matter how amazing, how wonderous, how _magical_ everything he did was, he would always be punished for it in the end. ‘Freakishness’, Vernon and Petunia had called it. Dudley caught onto that with open glee, running after him and screaming “Freak!” as he did. The glares and insults and pushes got worse as Dudley seemed to realize that Harry could do certain things that he could not.

Sometimes Harry wondered if Dudley was jealous. But that couldn’t be it. Why would Dudley ever be jealous of him when he already had everything?

Sometimes other children would come over to play. They were always nice to Dudley, but they never were to Harry. Harry soon learned that it was because they were Dudley’s friends, but they weren’t his. He wondered idly if he would ever have friends like those. Friends who would giggle at his jokes, who shared lunch with him, and who were _nice_. He was pulled from his thoughts by Uncle Vernon’s roaring voice.

 “HARRY!”

Harry got up and walked up the steps from the gardens, putting on a stoic expression. They never liked it when he smiled. 

“Yes, Uncle Vernon?” He asked softly as he took off his shoes and stepped indoors.

 “Harry, boy. Come here, don’t dwaddle,” Vernon snapped, holding onto what appeared to be a set of clean clothes. “We’ll be going somewhere today. And you have to dress nicely and _don’t mess up_ , got it? That means _no freakishness_.”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” Harry replied, reaching out to take the clothes. A minute later he was changed and ready to go. He peered at himself in the mirror and knew that they were going on a _business trip_ since he wore the same formal white shirt on black trousers that Dudley always wore when Vernon’s _business partners_ came over. Harry wasn’t sure what the words meant, but he knew they were important. The shirt and pant felt too baggy on him, but they were the best things he’s ever worn.

“Boy! What’s taking so long!?” Vernon’s yell sped Harry’s stroll to a brisk walk.

It was a two hours drive. Harry knew that he was leaving for good from Aunt Petunia’s stiff expression and Dudley’s maniacal laugh as they saw them off. When they finally arrived at in the gravelly parking lot next to a building that read “Mossdale’s Orphanage”, Vernon was annoyed and glaring.

“Come along now,” he growled when Harry lagged slightly behind. Harry didn’t say a word, but he didn’t speed up either. If his intuition served him, then that would be the last time he ever saw his uncle again, and his intuition was never wrong. 

An hour later, he found his guesses confirmed as he watched Vernon drive away from the second-floor window of his new bedroom. His grin was hidden behind a closed fist. There would be no more name calling and no more Dudley. He had his own bedroom now, though he had to share with another boy. Still, the matron seemed nice enough, and the other children had been _friendly_. Life was better.

 

 

* * *

 

Life was not better. 

Children, Harry mused, were all selfish and cruel. He had lived at Mossdale’s for over seven years and in just over a week, it would be his eleventh birthday. He had long since outgrown any childish notions from his Dursley days. 

Friendship and unconditional kindness from other children, he had realized, was a naive thought and an impossibility.

The initial curiosity soon morphed to disinterest once the other children realized that Harry was not one for much social interaction or childish chattering. Once the strange occurrences had started up again, that disinterest turned to fear for some, and hatred for others. The bullying and name calling returned with a vengeance. 

It was then that Harry realized that enduring silently was the worst thing he could do.

The bullies mistook his silence and inaction for weakness. Still, Harry was never too bothered by their cutting remarks.

Harry knew early on that he was different from the other children. The Dursleys had made it perfectly clear that he was as far as one could possibly get from the term 'normal'. While he had always thought himself a quick learner, since he took much less time than Dudley to learn the alphabet or how to walk, it quickly became apparent that even the children at the orphanage couldn't quite match his pace. This only made the others more antagonistic towards him. After being seen as a freak by the Dursleys, ostracized by the other children, and even being treated differently by the caretakers at the orphanage, it was hard not to see himself differently.

Therefore, Harry found it difficult to act his age. He had experienced enough to know the uglier sides of the world and had been the target of numerous negative emotions from others such as envy, ridicule, and spite.

All in all, it made him rather cynical and detached for a child. He found the antics of the bullies in the orphanage childish and not worth bothering with. If anything, this only pushed them to more drastic acts. Harry took it all in silence, knowing that there was no need to lower himself to their level and react to their insults. 

And so he did nothing, until one day, when it went too far.

He was six when it had happened. A few boys had thought that it would be funny to use him for target practice while he was on gutter cleaning duty. One moment, he was balanced along the edge of the roof. The next, he felt a blinding pain on the side of his face and felt himself falling. 

One story wasn’t much to fall from and logically speaking, he knew it should’ve taken much shorter. But suspended in free fall, a distant memory seemed to claw at the edge of his mind.

_Wind on his face. The grounds far beneath him. A sharp dive downwards. A surge of wondrous exhalation._

_“James!” An angry screech. “What are you doing!? He’s_ one _for goodness sake! Come down here right now!”_

_A nervous laugh, then once they were on steady ground again, he was moved into a warm embrace. “How could you!”_

_The soft chuckles suddenly shifted into a crazed cackle. The room was dimly lit._

_“Run! Get Harry! I’ll hold him off!”_

_A scream, sound of frenzied steps followed by faint, barely audible thuds._

_A whirl of wind. Billowing red hair and anguished green eyes._

_“Harry! Harry!”_

_A brief exchange muted by ringing in his ears. Then…a flash of brilliant green._

_“Harry Potter…” A soft hiss. Then another surge of light. A horrible wail. Searing pain on his forehead._

_Then for the briefest moment, he felt a torrent of pain, anger, and panic. None of those emotions were his own._

_“Harry…”_

“Harry!” 

The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, but there was almost no pain. It felt much more like a fall from a bed than a tumble from the roof. Still, he remained on his back, unmoving. That had been a once-reoccurring nightmare that he had long since forgotten. But rather than some sort of dream, it felt more like a memory.

No. Harry closed his eyes, trying to draw up the thought again. No matter how realistic, it wasn’t _possible_. He shouldn’t be able to _fly_ , green lights didn’t murder, and he wasn’t a mind reader, or emotions reader, or whatever that last part was. All of that was…impossible. 

He was Harry. Just Harry. Harry, whom everyone else dubbed ‘freak’. Harry, around whom strange things always happened. Harry, who had always done the impossible, such as floating toy trucks, or mending broken glass, or speaking to garden snakes. 

But if that vision had been his memory, then what did it say about his past…? Were his parents murdered? Were there other people who did the impossible like him? 

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had told him that his parents died in a car crash. The matron had told him the same thing. Did they all lie? Did they know who he was and what he could do?

“Harry!” The panicked calls of the Matron drew him out from his reverie.

Harry opened his eyes but made no move to get up. He felt perfectly fine. More than fine, actually. But he knew that he should’ve been hurt, _badly_. And apparently, so did Ms. Ellis. There was nothing wrong with up playing his non-existent injuries. After all, he’s been hurt enough times in the past to know how to act convincingly.

“Harry, what happened?” The fear in the woman’s voice had drastically decreased upon realizing that Harry wasn’t dead, and probably wasn’t going to anytime soon. “Are you able to stand?”

Harry’s gaze shifted towards her. She was one of the more tolerable adults. Rather than treating him with suspicion, she normally acted as if he was just another one of the children. Harry debated telling the truth. But he knew the children who had targeted him.

They were loud and boisterous but sweet and obedient in front of the caretakers and matron. Even if Ms. Ellis did believe him, they would get off with nothing more than extra cleaning duties. Harry bit back the sudden mix of frustration and anger that threatened to overtake him and slowly shook his head.

“I slipped,” he lied, pushing himself up shakily. “I-I think I’m okay. I’m just dizzy…and it hurts when I move my arm.”

“Can you show me where? Ah. Sprained wrists, then. You’re still lucky. Can you walk?” Ms.Ellis’s stiff posture relaxed, no doubt relieved they don’t have to go through the troublesome process of getting him medical care.

“I think so…”

He stood and took a few slow steps to prove his words, and once Ms. Ellis dismissed him he wobbled back inside, emphasizing his limp. He continued the same slow trek up to his room, after which he dropped the act entirely and dropped onto the hard mattress of his bed.

He lied there silently, staring up at the yellowed ceiling. The bullying had escalated, but he never fought back. He recalled how whenever Dudley got hurt while chasing him down, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had always blamed _Harry_ as if he was at fault for his cousin’s violent tendencies. Somehow, he knew that it would only be the same at the orphanage.

The seconds ticked by and he barely had a minute to himself before he heard a series of light steps.

His room was the first after the stairs and so he could see perfectly as the four children who always picked on him make their way up the steps. There were three boys and a girl. The boys were two or three years older than him, but the girl was around his age. Each had a mean streak a mile long.

One of the boys stepped forward bravely. 

“Did you tell on us?” He asked, a threatening tinge to his voice.

Harry didn’t bother deigning that with an answer. The other boy, Jackie, apparently took that as an affirmation, since he sneered. “They’ll never believe you anyway. You’re a loner and a freak. No one cares.”

The same anger surged upwards and Harry suddenly felt the same clarity he had when he held Dudley’s truck afloat in mid-air. For a moment he felt the strange sensation wrap around him protectively before it unwound and swirled as if awaiting his command. He slowly turned his head until he was staring at the group of children before letting an emotionless smile grace his face. Then he let the intoxicating power fill him and sent it bursting outwards.

The other three were thrown back and they hit the wall with a dull thud before falling to the ground, but Jackie was suspended in the air, arms flailing and choking against some invisible force.

Their eyes were all glued on Harry, filled with… _fear_ , Harry realized with a start. It was dozens of times more satisfactory than the normal mocking sneer.

Harry levelled his eyes with the hanging boy’s, then concentrated. 

For a moment he could almost see the scene of his fall play out from another angle as if he was in Jackie’s body. He could see the stone in his hands, hear their giggles, and then see the fist bumps they shared when Jackie landed a hit right on Harry’s head. 

Harry pulled himself out from the memory harshly and he could see a violent, pained shudder run through the boy’s body.

At first, he had wanted to leave things be. He had hoped that the others would quickly tire of him, just like how children cast aside new toys once the novelty’s passed. But at that moment, he realized that no matter what he did, the other four orphans would simply view it as either a weakness or an affront.

Jackie had been _glad_ to see him hurt. He had been amused. Even when Harry took that tumble off the roof, he still had felt as unapologetic as ever. 

Harry had originally planned to scare them a little so that they will leave him alone for at least a few weeks. But why should he be lenient when Jackie, and the other children as well, wouldn’t even care if he had _died_?

“Did you think that you are _invincible_?” Harry asked quietly. Normally, even someone in the room would have to strain to hear the softly spoken words. Yet to the four children’s fear laced minds, Harry may as well have shouted the sentence from the rooftops. The three huddled against the wall whimpered. Jackie couldn’t make a sound.

“Did picking on a six years old make you feel strong?” Harry continued. Years of repressed anger and hatred suddenly sprang free, fuelling his magic as it coiled around the children. It was the only word that could describe what he could do: magic.

The girl began to cry. She never personally acted against him, but Harry knew she could be even more vicious than her brother. Most times, it was her that egged them on. She was Jackie’s younger sister and, at the moment, Harry could feel waves of horror and worry roll off of her. 

In fact, he could sense varying degrees of terror from each child mixed with disbelief. 

“Did you still feel strong?”

The four stared fearfully back at him.

“Well? _Did you_?” Harry willed his magic to squeeze, and the children were fast to shake their heads.

He stood then, sliding out of bed with a predatory ease. He was small for his age, yet somehow that didn’t seem to matter as he stared down blankly at the much taller children crumbled on the floor. He leaned in until they were barely an arm’s length apart. Their eyes widened.

“You’re not. None of you are strong, or _ever will be_ ,” He whispered, reinforcing each of his words with a spike of magic. The children's eyes glazed over. “So _don’t act like it_.”

With a sudden turn of the head, he let Jackie stumble to the ground. He could hear the Matron’s sure steps as she neared the base of the stairs one floor down.

“Well?” He narrowed his eyes at Jackie. Memories of when he had shoved him in the mud, framed him for his own pranks in the orphanage, mocked him for his silence and lastly, nearly caused his death, flooded his mind. _This was letting him off easy_.

“What happens to liars?” Harry asked. Jackie trembled. Harry pushed insistently with his magic, infusing it with his desire. “ _Show me_.” The words came out in a near hiss, and whatever fight that had remained in the boy’s eyes were completely doused.

He turned, mechanically and slowly, until he stood facing the stairs.

“Jackie? Do you need something?” Harry could hear Ms. Ellis ask from downstairs. 

“ _Now_.”

Jackie fell forward, like a marionette with its strings cut. What followed a series of loud crashes and the alarmed shout of the caretakers. Harry ignored it all and turned to the remaining three children. Tears were flowing freely from the girl’s eyes, but all of them were still blank gazed.

“None of you will say _anything_ to the adults,” he stated, willing his magic to surge forward. He received two nods, but the girl hesitated, a flicker of some unnamed emotion shining through the haze of her eyes.

“You will not say a word,” Harry insisted, pouring the entirety of his willpower into his words. “You will say nothing, because you are all _weak_.”

Finally, all three children nodded, their faces still void of expressions. 

“Good.” Harry turned and went back to lie down in his bed, feeling drained from suddenly consciously using his powers. _And wasn’t that a surprise_. He had no idea he could influence others like that.

Behind him, the children all slumped, no longer held upright by the sheer force of his magic.

“Leave.” He said without sparing them a glance. They did.

Downstairs, there was a sudden explosion of sounds. Frenzied steps and cries and shouts drifted upstairs. Riding on the high of what felt like a magic overdose, Harry thought he could even pick out the worried whispers and the frantic dialing of a flip phone. 

With open wonder, he realized that a pin could drop in the basement and he could probably hear the click. 

“Call the ambulance!”

“What happened?”

“Is that Jackie? Is he okay?”

Harry laid back against the rough linen sheets and felt a tension that he hadn’t even realized was present finally release. It left him feeling lightheaded and relaxed. 

A part of his mind urged him to acknowledge that he had driven a boy to throw himself off the stairs. That at that point, he might even be considered a _murderer_ , if Jackie didn’t survive. A part of him wanted to feel remorse, to regret over the act. 

But when he had seen his own near-death through the boy’s eyes, it was as if a part in him that cared for others had shut off. If no one cared what happened to him, why should he concern himself over others? For the most part, he just felt a vindictive sense of satisfaction at the thought that _they_ were never going to bother him again. Besides, he had put up with Jackie’s bullying for over two years. The boy had it coming.

Soon, a drowsy numbness overtook whatever moral struggle he might have had, and he found himself being lulled to sleep by the white noise of the commotion downstairs.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The next morning, the dining room, filled with over three dozen clamouring children of varying ages, quieted when Harry entered. 

He ignored their stares as he walked past, got his bowl of plain oatmeal, and seated himself in the far corner of the room, as far away from the other orphans as he can manage without actually exiting the room. They all knew that what had happened to Jackie had been his fault; even some of the caretakers had taken to avoiding him. But none of them could prove it. After all, Ms. Ellis had personally witnessed Jackie ‘falling’ down the stairs with Harry nowhere in sight.

The boy left the orphanage on a stretcher in an ambulance. He never returned.

Over the course of the next two months, the remaining three of Jackie’s old clique had become more and more despondent, more and more pale, and more and more withdrawn. 

Then one day, one of the boys collapsed. He left on a stretcher, too, with a steady heartbeat and in good health. But no matter what anyone did, he remained unresponsive. The same had happened to the other boy. 

As for the girl, she had taken a nasty fall one day and scraped her palm. Harry had been all the way across clearing. The caretakers had wrapped her hand in gauze, but the blood just wouldn’t stop flowing. When the ambulance arrived, she was already unconscious, half soaked in a puddle of her own blood. They finally stemmed the blood flow after a few frantic minutes. But despite having survived, she never opened her eyes again. 

Each incident-that’s what they called it since they had no idea what ‘ _it’_ was-was spaced out from the other just to give enough time for gossip on the prior matter to dwindle. None of these three ever returned to the orphanage, either.

The remaining orphans whispered, the caretakers fretted, and the doctors worried. They never found out what exactly happened to the three children. The smarter orphans in the place knew that Harry was behind all four of the incidents. The other children, who didn’t quite understand, still knew enough to pick up on the growing fear and avoided him like the plague.

Harry appreciated the sudden bubble he found himself in. It meant no more drinks purposefully spilled down his front, no more sudden shoves, no more laughter, and no more degrading sneers. It meant more time to study his new found abilities. 

And so time passed. Over the years the fear that other children held for him was only further cemented. 

Rarely, there were one or two children who thought it funny to make a target out of the ‘freaky’ loner. Some came down with terrible colds, some experienced constant nightmares for weeks, and the more malicious ones…left the orphanage in various ways. 

Eventually, it became a widely agreed upon rule that Harry was not to be messed with. Or talked to. At all.

At the moment, he was sat upon the window seat of his room, contemplating what he would ask for his eleventh birthday the following week. Every child got to ask for a present on their birthdays, and as long as it was nothing outrageous, the matron would grant it. In the past, Harry had gotten third-hand books almost falling apart at the seams, cheap pens, and notepads for writing practice, and the occasional trinket, when he needed something to practice his magic on. 

But somehow, the number eleven felt unique, and he knew that he should think carefully of his choice.

His attention, however, was soon drawn out of his thoughts and towards the opening gates of the orphanage. There, clad in the most ridiculous piece of clothing-a robe of some sort, in bright purple with yellow highlights-he had ever seen, was an elderly man with pure white hair and a long beard that reached his waist. Harry watched the old-more like ancient-man as he neared and wondered with morbid curiosity if he was looking to adopt, and how long it would be before the child would be returned to the orphanage with another deceased guardian on their records. There was a click of the door downstairs, some words exchanged, then silence.

Harry put the matter out of mind before turning back to the book he had opened in his lap. It didn’t concern him anyhow. A half-hour later, he was proven wrong when a knock sounded on his door. Ms. Ellis entered, followed by a familiar mix of that horrendous yellow and purple.

“Harry?” Her tone was clipped, as it always was when speaking with him. “There’s an Albus Dumbledore here to see you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter one - finished! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> This is an idea I've had for a while now and never really started on for one reason or another. The update time is likely to be slower than my other work - school's just started up and the workload is already hitting me like a brick to the face.
> 
> Also, please read the tags!
> 
> This story will be slash, but that is probably FAR in the future. If you want to read a story with manipulative Dark!Harry but with no ships, check out my other work 'Paradoxial Parallels'!
> 
> Cheers!


	2. Wizarding London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets Albus Dumbledore, visits Diagon Alley, and learns more about his past

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore did not err often over the course of his long life. In fact, the number of serious cases could be counted on one hand with fingers to spare. The first and easily the most disastrous had been Grindelwald. The next, of course, was Tom Riddle. What a mess that had all turned out to be. 

But whatever the case, he had never, _never_ expected Harry James Potter, the Boy Who Lived, to be added on the short list.

Losing Harry Potter was perhaps the greatest mistake he’s ever made.

The morning that he received a suspiciously thick letter from one Arabella Figgs, he knew that something had gone horribly wrong. When he finished reading, his fears were only confirmed.

Harry Potter was gone. Lost. 

To make matters worse, she had no idea when Harry actually disappeared. That year was supposed to be Harry’s seventh, but by then, Harry was already long gone from Number 4, Privet Drive. Petunia and Vernon had upheld the pretence that Harry was still living under their roofs whenever the rare question was asked. Only when Ms. Figgs babysat Dudley and realized that there was zero trace of another child in the house, did she start to worry. Three days later, she had sent Dumbledore the letter. 

Dumbledore had immediately alerted the professors of Hogwarts. He had never revealed Harry’s original living arrangements since he had been safe and alive. The fewer people knew, the better. But things have taken a change for the worse. The only logical thing he knew to do was to gather the brilliant minds that he trusted, and request their aid. They had a long, tense meeting over what actions to take next. They unanimously decided against going to the Ministry, nor letting word of the matter out to the press. Once again, the fewer people that knew Harry Potter was no longer ‘protected’, the better.

Following that, Dumbledore had taken the obvious course of action and personally visited the Dursleys. His first two attempts ended up with spittle shot in his eyes and a door slammed in his face. When he finally wrung a meeting out from the man, the situation only worsened.

Neither Petunia nor Vernon Dursley remembered exactly _when_ they left Harry there, and neither Dursley knew exactly _where_ ‘there’ was, either. Even legilimency had yielded no results. After all, when the memory was blurred beyond saving, even magic could only do so much.

The only morsel of information he had gotten from the frustrating meeting was that Harry was at an adoption center, foster care, or a youth shelter somewhere, _probably_. Furthermore, he’s been there for years. 

Then, Dumbledore had returned to Hogwarts feeling decades older, retelling the news to the other professors. They had been furious of course, but McGonagall had also been just a tad smug that her warnings had come true after all. After another tediously long meeting, Dumbledore retreated to the quiet of his office and spent the afternoon deep in thought.

The following morning, he had called on every favour he had ever been promised by his resourceful ex-Slytherin acquaintances, flooed every accomplished Ravenclaw he knew, and still, he was nowhere close to locating the Boy Who Lived. He had taken certain precautions when sending Harry off to the Dursleys. Now, those same precautions which were meant to keep Death Eaters off of Harry’s trail were coming back to work against him.

Who knew it would be so hard to find an eight years old boy in muggle London. If he had known earlier, that’s where he would’ve sent Lily and James during the war, Fidelius Charm be damned. 

Now Harry was lost somewhere, caught amidst the London crowds, the long traffics, the endless records of the hundreds of public schools, and perhaps even under a different name, _if he was still alive_. That question will plague Dumbledore for years to come.

The search was never called off, but the professors all came up equally empty-handed. 

While the quill was penning every outgoing Hogwarts letter, all the Hogwarts professors had crowded around the desk, waiting with bated breath as it reached the _P_ section. There was a collective sigh of relief as the quill scribbled _Harry James Potter_ in green ink, and then the tension returned when they saw the address.

_Mossdale’s Orphanage, London, First Bedroom Across the Stairs_

At the mention of an ‘orphanage’, Dumbledore’s blood had already chilled. He remembered another dark haired boy once, sitting alone on his bed, all sharp gazes and smooth words. But then he caught himself and remembered that it was James and Lily’s son that he was thinking of, not some psychopath born from a loveless marriage brought upon by Amorentia.

Needless to say, Dumbledore and quite a few others wanted nothing more than to Apparate there on the spot. But McGonagall and Flitwick, their voices of reason, both urged them to calm first and _think_. 

A Harry Potter that grew up in an orphanage would be _very_ different from a Harry Potter that grew up with his family. Sending Hagrid with his letter no longer seemed to be the best option. First, they must know exactly where it was that Harry grew up. Only then, would they know who would be the most fitting to introduce him to the magical world.

It took them a day to visit the general vicinity of the building and then another to determine how most of the children there acted. Seeing the relatively developed area and the group of orphans happily playing tag on a nearby field, the professors set their worries at ease and returned to Hogwarts. Finally, it was decided that Albus Dumbledore himself would bring young Harry his Hogwarts letter since he had the most experience with muggleborn children.

And so, on the morning of the fourth day, since they discovered Harry Potter’s whereabouts, Dumbledore dressed in one of his more magical robes and set out for muggle London.

He stood outside the gates leading up to the orphanage and took in, with some relief, the sight of the bright seeming orphanage. There were flowers planted along the gate and groups of children were chattering happily around the gardens. He tried fruitlessly to catch a sight of that familiar messy black hair amongst them. Then, as he entered the gates and walked towards the structure, he got a distinctly prickling sensation as if he was being stared at. That was nothing new, with all the children around him stopping to gape. Yet one of the stares, he couldn’t pinpoint where from, felt different. It was like he was being _studied_.

The feeling was gone as soon as he scaled the steps and rang the doorbell.

Ms. Ellis was a slender and kindly seeming woman in her middle years. She wore a floral patterned dress and had cropped short hair. She welcomed him in and led him down tot he dining room, lips twitching involuntarily when her disapproving eyes scanned his eccentric choice of robes.

“How may I help you, Mr. Dumble-Dumble…”

“Albus is fine,” Dumbledore smiled.

“My apologies, I was never quite good at remembering longer names. How may we help you today, Albus?”

Dumbledore stared up at the woman, determined to catch her reaction when he voices his question. “I was wondering…is there a boy here-he should be around ten or eleven-who goes by the name of Harry Potter?”

Almost immediately the woman stilled and a glazed look came over her eyes. Magical Compulsion, Dumbledore realized with a start, but not in any advanced form. But who could be around to place it on her, and why? The thought that it might have been Harry didn’t even cross his mind. After all, accidental magic cannot _compulse_. 

“Harry…” Ms. Ellis began in a daze. “Harry has always had trouble forming bonds with new families. If you’re looking to adopt, there are some other boys I could recommend…”

Dumbledore barely listened as she continued to list out better candidates for adoption. Someone- _someone magical_ -didn’t want Harry to be adopted, and he wanted to know _why_. 

With a burst of his magic and more effort than he thought he’d need to combat the intermediate level compulsive magic, he wiped the dazed expression from the Matron’s face and instead was faced with a confused frown.

“Excuse me, I’m afraid I lost my train of thought…”

“Oh, not to worry. It happens to the best of us,” Dumbledore said jovially. “I was just asking after a boy-young Harry Potter. He’s one of yours, isn’t he?” 

Dumbledore was not prepared for the slight widening of the eyes and the rapid paling.

“Oh no,” Ms. Ellis murmured. “Did he do something? What happened?”

Dumbledore frowned. Alarm bells were going off in his mind, but he pushed his instinct to the back of his mind and continued his questioning. “Nothing to worry about. I’m just an old friend of his parents hoping to visit. The headmaster of a boarding school they enrolled him in, actually. Why? Are there any concerns?”

Ms. Ellis’s expression twisted as if she couldn’t decide on what she wanted to say. “Well…Harry, he’s a…peculiar child? Not to say that there’s anything wrong with him…I would never imply…but the point is, he isn’t quite _normal_.”

Ah. Dumbledore felt himself relax somewhat. Another case of a muggle guardian being frightened by a few bouts of accidental magic. “What do you mean?” He asked softly, encouraging her to say more.

“It’s just…you may not believe me, but, strange things happen around him. Things that can’t be explained. I’m sure it may not be his fault, but…” Ms. Ellis trailed off, looking unsure. Her eyes seemed to gain that glazed quality again, and Dumbledore felt a tinge of surprise. A Compulsion ingrained this deep? That’d take not only time but powerful magic as well. 

“But?” Dumbledore pumped, giving her his warmest smile.

Her posture relaxed somewhat, but not entirely.

“The thing is, this particular orphanage has had quite a few accidents over the last few years. Since Harry got here, in fact.”

Dumbledore nodded along, thinking of all the dangers that could come out of being around accidental magic without being prepared. Moving furniture, shattering windows, floating objects…the list was endless.

“Of course, he never directly do anything to them. But if you watch close enough, the ones that get it are always the bullies of the particularly bad sort. Sometimes, things happen to them. Things that can’t be explained.”

“Oh?” Dumbledore hummed, still giving her encouraging smiles. It wasn’t rare for magical children to be picked on in the muggle world. Accidental magic lashing out in self-protection occurrence, but it mainly just had a scaring factor. Actual harm was rarely done.

“Yes. A few children were hospitalized over the years. It’s mostly because of different causes, except for that one time with the three…sorry, I digress,” Ms. Ellis was nervously tapping her manicured nails against the surface of the table. Dumbledore frowned at the sign of magical withdrawal. Just how long had the person who spelled her been feeding her their magic?

“They were always somehow linked to Harry. A push down the steps, spilling hot soup over his pants, all that common childish cruelty. You’re a Headmaster yourself, you’d understand.” At Dumbledore’s light nod she continued. “Then…it’s almost as if as soon as they cross a line, they’re just… _gone_. And nobody knows _how_ it happens, but it does. The other children can sense it too. They avoid Harry, they don’t bother him when he’s alone. When strange things happen, we all turn a blind eye.”

Dumbledore mulled over the words. It seemed like young Harry didn’t have a happy childhood. It was a saddening thought, but Hogwarts would change it all.

“These children that were hospitalized…May I speak to them?” Dumbledore asked instead of dwelling on his thoughts.

Ms. Ellis’ lips thinned. Her eyes were downcast for a brief moment before she looked up and met his eyes again. “That would be impossible, I’m afraid. They’re still there.”

It was like a sudden bucket of cold water had been poured down his back. No accidental magic should be able to cause such long-lasting injuries.

“And…young Harry caused these injuries?” Dumbledore questioned.

Ms. Ellis’ eyes widened. She was quick to shake her head. “Oh, goodness, no. That would be a harsh accusation for me to make. Besides, they’re not injuries that anyone _could cause_. Once, there were these few children who were sent off to the hospital and just never woke up. They’re still alive, on life support, but it’s like they’re stuck in some sort of self-induced coma. Then, there are these older boys, almost thirteen. They…”

While Ms. Ellis spoke, Dumbledore stared into her eyes and watched the memories unfold. His blood chilled at the sight of Jackie’s blank expression. Nothing seemed too out of the ordinary with the three children that had been a part of Jackie’s group, at least from what he can see. The other few incidents featured various different accidents that couldn’t be _anything_ but simple accidents. Besides, there was no method of detecting magical signatures from the memory of a muggle.

“Now it all seems foolish, once I say it out loud…” Ms. Ellis mused as she finished recounting the few events. “Maybe this is what they call karma…what goes around, comes around. Maybe poor Harry is just caught up in the middle because they _always_ make him a target…”

Dumbledore wasn’t sure what to think, but he knew that he had to speak with Harry Potter. Those weren’t bursts of accidental magic. If they were, the Ministry would have long since followed the Trace and sent people over for damage control and Obliviation purposes.

“Thank you for letting me know,” Dumbledore rose and the Matron followed, appearing much more relaxed than when they had just begun talking. “May I speak with Harry, now? I think he would appreciate knowing what his parents left him, even if it is just a lousy spot at some boarding school.”

Ms. Ellis chuckled, more at Dumbledore’s attempt to bring humour into the situation than the words themselves. “Of course. Follow me.”

They silently walked up the stairs and came to an abrupt stop atop the last steps. Ms. Ellis reached out a and to gently knock against a closed door.

“Harry?” He heard her say as she peered into the room. “There’s an Albus Dumbledore here to see you.”

A pause followed before a hum of assent sounded.

Ms. Ellis quickly stepped to the side and for a moment Dumbledore got the impression that she appeared almost relieved to have the boy out of her sight again.

“Go ahead,” she smiled and motioned to the door. Dumbledore opened his mouth to thank her, but before he could, she was already quickly fleeing down the corridors.

The similarities were stacking up, he realized with a start. Forcing the sense of deja vu from his mind and a pleasant smile on his face, Dumbledore stepped through the doorway and his eyes came to rest upon the boy he had expanded every resource searching for the past few years.

The moment he entered the room, he felt the same concentrated gaze he had felt earlier when walking up to the building steps. He was barely able to contain his surprise as he studied the young boy before him.

Even for a ten-year-old, Harry was quite small. He had the same bony build as many of the other orphans and he was similarly dressed in the Mossdale greyish blue shirt and pants. He was sitting on the bed, legs draping off the side and a slim book laying open across his lap. His hair was combed down somewhat at the top, and Dumbledore could only imagine how much effort it must have taken to even minimally tame the infamous Potter hair. Still, it stuck out messily at the back and sides, where shorter locks spiked up in all directions.

Half hidden beneath spiky bangs were a pair of hauntingly brilliant eyes. They were a deep, rich green, not unlike a cut of pure emerald…or the banner of Slytherin. For a moment Dumbledore thought that he could see himself reflected completely in those unblinking eyes. For a moment it seemed as if the boy had managed to see past his every Occlumency shields, and dove down to the very depth of his mind.

Then the boy blinked and the moment passed.

“Mr. Dumbledore, sir,” Harry greeted politely.

Dumbledore returned a cheery smile. Harry’s eyes swept down his brightly coloured robes, and his lips pressed tight in a straight line. Dumbledore couldn’t be quite sure if it was to hide a smile or a grimace.

“Harry, my boy,” he said instead, putting the boy’s unreadable expressions out of mind. “I must apologize I didn’t come to see you earlier. You see, we only recently found your name among the records here as Mossdale’s-”

“Pardon me, sir,” Harry interrupted, almost impolitely, Dumbledore would’ve thought, had his tone and words not been the epitome of a respect. “But have we met?”

“Harry-”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t believe you are under any obligation to visit _me_ , sir,” Harry continued, smoothly cutting off his words yet again. “So apologies are unnecessary, no?”

Dumbledore’s lip twitched. The tone was so reminiscent of the haughty one young James Potter had always used before meeting Lily that it was hard not to smile in response. “As I was saying, my boy, I was an acquaintance of your parents. But first, why don’t you tell me how you came to be using such big words at such a young age?”

The young boy’s words had surprised him. He didn’t expect a boy who grew up with minimal means in an orphanage to be speaking in a manner that would’ve fit right in amongst some of the more privileged pure blood heirs.

“I read,” Harry said, almost drily. A second passed before he added, as if he had forgotten, “Sir.”

“I see,” Dumbledore continued to smile. “Well, first, I believe some introductions are in order. My name is Albus Dumbledore, and I am the current headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A school I hope you’ll attend in September.”

For the first time since they met, Harry’s stoic expression cracked. A mixture of surprise and smug satisfaction bled through his eyes before he seemed to pull himself together. “A school? Sir?” There was barely suppressed excitement lacing his voice.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled at the boy’s expression. The part he loved the most about these trips was seeing the children’s eyes light up once he revealed to them Hogwart’s existence. It turned out that Harry would be not too different from the other muggleborn children, after all.

“Yes,” he continued. “That’s what _you_ are, in fact. You’re a wizard, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes widened marginally before narrowing again. “You’re one too?” A nod. “Prove it.”

Dumbledore held out a hand and the book that now lied ignored in Harry’s lap fluttered up, circled around them gracefully, and finally landed in his outstretched hands. All the while he watched Harry’s expression. He was surprised when the boy looked unaffected and almost unimpressed. Nevertheless, Dumbledore pushed on.

“Strange things happen around you sometimes, don’t they?” He questioned. “Things you can’t explain.”

“Yes.” Harry’s quiet reply garnered his attention once more. “When I’m angry, things break. When there’s something I can’t reach, it will come to me. Things fix themselves when I want them to be fixed, and when I need light-” As if on command, several bright orbs of light flickered into existence around him. 

More than a little surprised, Dumbledore’s eyes flickered up and met the boy’s. There was a nervous tension reflected in the green orbs. Suddenly, Dumbledore realized that Harry had thought that he was being _tested_. As if there was a requirement or some sort for him to be able to attend Hogwarts.

Something in Dumbledore’s gaze must’ve reassured him, for Harry relaxed his posture ever so slightly. Dumbledore was still busy processing the fact that Harry’s accidental magic had already matured to an extent that could almost be considered _wandless magic_ , and so he didn’t see the smirk that flitted past Harry’s face for a fraction of a second.

“Sir.” Dumbledore’s eyes snapped up again at the voice. “When does the school year start? How will I get there? Are there anything I need to bring?”

The series of questions brought a smile to the older wizard’s features and he said brightly, “Nothing to worry about, Harry, my boy. I will send a professor one day to take you to get your supplies. As you're first two questions, every student will be boarding the Hogwarts Express on Platform 9 and 3/4, King’s Cross station. The boarding ticket is in your letter of acceptance.” He handed over the envelope with Harry’s name inked in green and watched as a peculiar glint entered the boy’s eyes. 

“If that is all, my boy-”

“Headmaster Dumbledore, sir,” Harry spoke up again. Dumbledore paused. “Where is it exactly that I’ll be…getting my supplies? And what if I’m unable to…” He trailed off near the end.

“Unable to afford it?” Dumbledore finished for him, smiling calmingly. “You needn’t worry about that, my boy. Your parents have left you quite a fortune, mainly for financing your education, of course.” His wrinkle-lined eyes twinkled mischievously. Harry returned a small smile. “You will be able to withdraw however much you need from your family vault in Gringotts. A wizarding bank.” He clarified at Harry’s questioning gaze. “It’s the best-the _only_ in Britain, in fact. Safest place on earth should you ever need to store something. Everything you need for school can be bought at Diagon Ally.”

“Diagon Ally?” Harry’s tone was innocently curious. “How is it that I’ve never seen any magical stores when we go on field trips around London?”

A part of Dumbledore still felt guilty over leaving poor Harry in the care of a second-rate muggle orphanage, and so he decided to indulge him.

“Diagon Ally can only be entered through a bar in London called the Leaky Cauldron. Witches and wizards have placed spells on it so that juggles-non magical people-won’t be able to see nor enter.”

“What’s the address, may I ask?” At Dumbledore’s furrowing brow Harry quickly spoke again to clarify. “I need to inform Ms. Ellis, you understand. She needs to know where I’ll be at when the professor comes to pick me up.”

Dumbledore’s brow relaxed. He jotted the address down on a spare slip of parchment in his pocket and handed it to the boy. “Of course. Well, my boy, it’s been very pleasant meeting you today. I’ll be seeing you in September.”

Harry nodded and smiled. Dumbledore was amused when Harry held out a hand for a handshake but complied anyway.

“Thank you, sir, for coming all this way,” Harry said politely, smiling as he saw him off at the doorway.

Dumbledore bid Ms. Ellis farewell before strolling out the muggle establishment and Disapparating once he was in the secrecy of one of the nearby alleyways. He had a content smile on his face. 

It wasn’t until he set foot in Hogwarts again when he realized that he had completely forgotten to ask Harry about the magic-induced incidents that have been occurring over the years. 

“Severus,” he greeted once the potions master entered his office an hour later. “I need you to look into something for me. Find out if there are any Magicals around the vicinity of Mossdale’s Orphanage, London.”

Severus Snape quirked a brow, but he nodded stiffly all the same and swept out of the room.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry watched as the strangely dressed man-Albus Dumbledore, he reminded himself-just about skip out the orphanage and disappear around the nearest turn. Only then did the polite attentiveness fade from his face into something akin to amusement. He let out a laugh.

He knew that he had been different from all the other children, but this was beyond his expectations. To think, there was another society full of people like him in London, and he had never known. He was a wizard. The things he could do were the result of _his_ magic. Soon, he, too, will be stepping into that foreign world.

And Harry _will_ be prepared.

The elderly wizard had been entirely too trusting. He had entered with suspicion-tinged eyes but within a few words, slight smiles, and rapid-fire questions, Harry had a spot-clean record in his mind. Harry had prepared answers should the wizard question him on the matter of all the incidents that occurred in the orphanage. He had been ready to clear his mind of any of his possibly incriminating memories over the years, should Dumbledore be able to do to him what he had done to the other children when he read their thoughts.

But it seemed that all his preparations had been for nothing. Dumbledore either didn’t suspect him of being capable of causing all the injuries, or he had simply _forgotten_ to ask. Either way, it was his own carelessness.

Harry smiled to himself, humming as he took his book back from the stool on which the old headmaster had sat at a moment before and set it beside his bed.

One of the good things about growing up at Mossdale’s, surrounded by dozens of children, most of whom had a mean streak, was that he learned to quickly pick apart people’s expressions, and how to hide his own. Dumbledore had been open and expressive-perhaps he didn’t expect a child to be able to read him so closely. Yet Harry had gleaned several interesting pieces of information.

The older man had, interestingly enough, been almost apprehensive prior to entering the room. Harry tapped his fingers against the bed thoughtfully. Maybe he’s had a bad history with magical children that grew up in orphanages? Harry wouldn’t be surprised. Once Harry had played up a more haughty, childishly rebellious facade, the wizard had relaxed and appeared…fond. 

That had been a strange expression to see directed at him, Harry mused, lips twitching up at the corners.

Dumbledore did say that he knew his parents. Maybe he reminded him of one of them? Harry’s mind drifted to his distant dream, or memory, of soaring through the air in some dark-haired man’s arms, and the scolding the red-headed woman and given afterward. Most likely his dad, then.

During moments when he thought Harry hadn’t been looking, his eyes also flashed with a mixture of guilt and worry. Harry thought for a moment then sighed. There was no point in thinking up baseless conjectures. He had already revealed just enough of his magical talent to impress the headmaster, but not enough to frighten or bring unnecessary attention. That was all that mattered for now. 

Harry stood suddenly and opened the door just as Ms. Ellis passed. She stiffened subconsciously at the sight of him. 

“Ms. Ellis. Good morning,” Harry nodded.

“Harry,” Ms. Ellis hesitated. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“My birthday is in a week.”

Ms. Ellis’s posture relaxed somewhat. “Ah, yes. Have you thought about what you would like?”

Harry smiled. The unusual expression visibly threw Ms. Ellis off. She blinked. “I was wondering if I may have two bus tickets?”

A beat of silence passed before Ms. Ellis spoke. “Bus tickets? What do you need them for?”

Harry focused his thoughts and felt a familiar prickle run down his arms as his magic gathered. “Headmaster Dumbledore must’ve informed you earlier-that is, I’ll be attending a boarding school my parents signed me up for when I was born. I need to get some school supplies and the uniform, and I was hoping to take a day trip to the shopping district. It’s the same bus we take for field trips, so there is no need to trouble any caretakers to accompany me.”

Despite the slight pressure of his magic urging her to comply, Ms. Ellis still seemed hesitant.

“I’ll be back before dinner,” Harry promised. He then added for good measure, “I’m sure Headmaster Dumbledore would be willing to write a permission slip if you give him a call.”

Harry wasn’t even sure if the ancient wizard had a phone.

“That’s not necessary,” Ms. Ellis finally decided. “When are you planning on going?”

“Is the day after tomorrow alright?”

Ms. Ellis nodded. “That’s fine.”

And so two days later, Harry stood across the street, peering incredulously at a dingy structure across the road sporting the name _Leaky Cauldron_ across its store top in faded paint. Shaking stray thoughts from his head, Harry quickly weaved through the traffic and slipped in through the creaky doors.

Harry had mentally prepared to accept anything he’d be coming across, yet he still felt a jolt of surprise at the sudden change in ambiance. Gone was the pale artificial light that lit up the London indoors. Instead, the entire tavern was suffused in a warm glow. A sweet, buttery scent permeated the air along with a variety of other, lighter fragrances. Laughter and loud chatters sounded from all around, and the antiquated tables and stools scattered around the room were nearly completely occupied by various cloaked figures. Harry was partially relieved to see not all wizards shared the eccentric headmaster’s sense of fashion. 

Remembering that Dumbledore had said that Diagon Alley lied behind the pub, Harry pushed his way through the crowd and slipped with a group of witches and wizards through the back entrance. He kept his head lowered and no one noticed his presence amidst the group.

Confusion flickered across his eyes when he caught sight of what appeared to be a dead end until one wizard stood forward and pulled out a long stick from his sleeve. A wand, Harry realized. He walked up to the brick wall and expertly tapped several bricks in succession. Harry couldn’t help from gaping just slightly when the wall folded inwards, revealing a bustling, brightly decorated, and beyond all else, _magical_ , street lined with countless shops. Quickly pulling in his slackened expression, Harry joined the thick crowd pushing through the road.

This was the world of wizards, magic, and the impossible made possible. Harry didn’t even bother suppressing the wide grin that split across his face. This was where he belonged.

But if he wanted to stay…At the thought, his eyes darkened. He wouldn’t make the same mistake he had with the Dursleys or with the other children at the orphanage when he just arrived. He would prove himself worthy of his place in _this_ world from the very start. He had no lingering attachments to the dusty streets of muggle London nor the peeling walls of Mossdale’s Orphanage. But this-this was home. 

Harry felt his conviction grow. Still, he had to start somewhere. As for that somewhere…his eyes drifted upwards at the towering, white structure in the near distance. Golden letters curving over white marble read _Gringotts_. Harry quickened his steps and neared the daunting structure. He would first have to see what his parents had left him.

It said something about how distracted Harry was that he had not noticed that the guards and bankers of Gringotts were not human until he stood before the front desk. He started at the sight of the wrinkled face, long hooked nose, and thick lips that split a long line across his face. Still, he managed to keep the surprise from showing on his face. If a secret society of magic users existed in the midst of London, it was only a given that other magical creatures may exist, as well.

“Excuse me, sir?” Harry called out when the creature ignored his presence.

He was still ignorant of the ways of the magical world. Before that, he determined that it would be better to be safe than sorry, and so his tone towards the other was polite and respectful.

The creature leaned over the desk and peered down at him. Suddenly, he grinned, showing a mouthful of jagged teeth. To Harry’s credit, he showed no outward reaction.

“My name is Harry James Potter, sir,” Harry introduced himself, maintaining eye contact. He knew that that was important to getting any adult to take him seriously. “I would like to make a withdrawal.”

Surprise flashed across the creature’s features. He set down his quill, now paying the child before him his full attention. “Well, does little Harry Potter have his key?”

Harry felt a tinge of annoyance, partly at knowing nearly nothing about how things worked in the magical world, and partly at the other’s condescending words. “I apologize. I grew up with muggles after my parents passed away and so I am not in possession of one. Is it required for entering the vaults? Is there some other way I may prove my identity?”

A scrutinizing gaze settled on him for a moment before the creature gave a long-suffering sigh and stood. Harry heard the clicks of several drawers opening and the sound of flipping through paper. Quite suddenly, a blank parchment and a pure black quill slammed down towards him.

Purely by instinct, Harry reached out with his magic and caught the items just they flitted inches from his face. They hovered before his eyes, and Harry felt another pang of annoyance as he realized he had no idea what he needed to do.

“Well? I haven’t got all day,” the creature behind the desk snarked. When he was met with Harry’s blank stare, he scowled. “Did the muggles teach you how to write your name?”

Harry pushed down the urge to lash back at the creature with his magic and grabbed the quill. He scrawled his looping signature across the yellowed parchment. Seeing a wisp of his magic sink into the paper in crimson ink was surprising, but that was quickly replaced by a jolt of pain from his inner wrist. 

Harry turned over his left arm just in time to see faint red lines fading from his skin. The pattern was familiar. When his eyes flickered up and past where the creature sat, he realized it was the same as the symbol of Gringotts.

“That’s a Gringotts authorized blood quill,” the creature must have sensed Harry’s alarm, for he clarified. “The mark was simply for checking if you’re the same person you’re claiming to be. It takes a few drops of blood, mixes it with your magic, and we’ll know who you really are.”

Harry stared down at the parchment in wonder. For a moment nothing happened. Then the ink shifted, trailing down in a scratchy line from his signature. Then it split off and continued to spread across the page. Harry watched with amazement as letters etched themselves upon the parchment in a spidery script, followed by a series of numbers. A second later, Harry realized they were dates.

_James Charlus Potter_. Harry blinked. That must be his father.

_Lily Potter née Evans_.

His mother. His mind drifted back to the sight of the red-haired woman from his memories who had died protecting him.

Harry wasn’t entirely surprised when he felt no sudden change in emotion. There was no sudden burst of yearning, or love, or even bittersweet remembrance. As things were, all he had to remember them by was a fragmented memory that he had thought of as a nightmare for years.

He had no idea who James Potter or Lily Evans was, and he would never know. They might have been his birth parents, but Harry had grown up alone. He never had a mother nor a father, only guardians.

So, while he was grateful that they gave up their lives for him, Harry couldn’t truthfully say that he felt anything beyond that certain degree of gratitude. To him, James and Lily were strangers who died before their time.

He pulled his attention back from his thoughts just as the process neared its end.

The pattern continued until the entire page was filled with the same barely legible writing. When the last of the words appeared, the red dulled until it became a standard ink-black. Harry sent the chart floating back onto the tall desk. The words there meant little to him at the moment, when he had no idea who any of those people were. He would find out later, but for now, it was more important for him to gain access to his vault.

The creature took the page and studied it carefully. Finally, he turned his gaze back towards Harry and smiled, much less antagonistic than he had been previously. “Well, well. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Harry James Potter. The name’s Griphook.”

Harry barely held himself back from voicing any of his relevant questions-he didn't have all day to spend in the bank. But...What did the creature see that resulted in a near flip in attitude? Pushing back on his curiosity was hard, yes, but not impossible. Finally, Harry spoke again. “Likewise, Mr. Griphook. Is it possible to visit my vault now?”

“Griphook is fine. There is no need for that ‘mister’ nonsense,” the creature grinned sharply. “As for your enquiry, which vault are you referring to, exactly?”

 

 

* * *

 

Harry stared down at the surprisingly long list of the Gringotts vaults under his name. At the very top of the list was the _Black Family Vaults_ , then the _Potter Family Vaults_ , followed by _Trust Vault, Harry J. Potter_. The listed amount of galleons, sickles, and knuts (Harry made a mental note to learn the exchange rate as soon as he is able to) was at a number Harry wasn’t even sure how to say. Beneath the three were a smattering of smaller vaults holding significantly fewer amounts of money. He was astounded, to say the least, and also somewhat furious.

For more than a decade, he’s lived without so much as a penny to his name. The Dursley’s underfed him, and the orphanage underfed _all_ the children. He’s dressed in rags for the better part of his life and he’d even been thankful just to get a small notebook for his ninth birthday.

And now, someone was telling him that all along, he’s had piles of gold and silver at his fingertips?

“These are all of your active vaults. When you come of age, other vaults that you are a potential heir of will be added,” Griphook explained. “Those are vaults with more than one potential inheritors. The heir will only be chosen once every one come of age.”

“Why are there so many?” Harry asked, counting over two dozen vaults in total. 

Griphook’s eyes shone as if he knew something that Harry did not. “There were quite a few witches and wizards without heirs who saw fit to name you the sole inheritor of their estate.”

“Were they friends of the Potters?”

Griphook’s expression, if all possible, twisted further. “Not that I’m aware of.”

_But why?_ Harry held the words back. He was sure that it wasn’t normal at all to leave all of your riches to some random stranger. In fact, more than anything else, he felt a growing suspicion. There would be time to find out on his own, later.

“Then let’s go to my trust vault, for now,” Harry decided, rolling up the list and handing it back to the creature-a goblin, Harry reminded himself. Griphook had mentioned it in passing while Harry made another mental note to gather some information on other magical creatures.

Griphook gave a grunt of assent before standing and motioning for him to follow. Harry quickened his steps to keep up with the goblin’s brisk strides. Griphook snatched a hanging lantern from the wall as they ventured into darker corridors.

“Would it be possible to get another set of the keys you mentioned earlier?” Harry spoke up. “I never possessed any, and I don’t want to go through that test again every time I come.”

Griphook eyed him cautiously for a moment before speaking hesitantly. “Gringotts cannot provide replacement keys when the original set is not ‘lost’.”

Harry blinked, letting the implications of the words sink into his mind. “Not lost? You mean, _someone else_ has keys to _my_ vaults, and could have been taking money out all these years?”

Griphook’s steps faltered and he looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Well, yes, but-”

“Doesn’t Gringotts advertise itself as the topmost wizarding bank for its tight security?” Harry cut forth, ignoring the protests of his increasingly nervous companion. “The _safest place on earth_ , in fact, was what I have been told.”

“Yes, but-”

“And now you’re telling me that someone else had access to everything my parents had left me, that Gringotts knew about it, and chose to do _nothing_?” His voice had steadily quieted, but if anything, the goblin only appeared more panicked.

“Mr. Potter, I assure you- Your keys are safe in the hands of Albus Dumbledore. After the incarceration of your appointed caretaker, he stepped up as your magical guardian and swore to be responsible for your well being. Yes, yes, he had access to your vaults. He could come and go and he pleases, but we at Gringotts take our duties _very seriously_ , and I can ensure that for the past several years, not a knut has left your vault. Only in the early years were there monthly withdrawals, and only in small amounts. Albus Dumbledore himself took a magic oath that the minimal amount he did take were being put to your welfare!” Griphook spoke quickly, no doubt hoping to calm Harry before he could interrupt again.

Harry processed the words before finally giving a stiff nod. He sneered as he remembered his days at the Dursleys and every cold meal of leftovers he had to sit through. His welfare? Either Dumbledore was naive beyond saving, or he knew, but refused to acknowledge it or do something about it. Either way, Harry decided then that Dumbledore was not to be trusted nor respected. There was nothing more dangerous than having someone careless in a position of power. And Dumbledore was _powerful_ , that much Harry could tell.

“I want my keys returned before the month’s end,” Harry finally said, picking up the pace again. This time, it was Griphook who had to scramble to match his steps.

“It will be done, Mr. Potter,” the goblin promised, his scratchy voice tinged with relief.

A few minutes and a nauseating railway cart ride later, Harry stood to the side while Griphook stepped forward and ran a bony finger down the center of a dark, stone door. The material seemed to melt away right before his eyes, revealing what could only be described as _a mountain_ of gold, silver, and copper coins. 

And this was only his Trust Vault.

Harry blinked in surprise. If this was what his parents expected him to need for a few years at school, then either thing cost significantly more than he expected, or his family was rich. He was leaning towards the latter.

“There are a total of 391,800 galleons, 5785 sickles, and 98 knuts. Keep in mind, this is only your Trust Vault. You can visit every other vault, but you can’t withdraw from the Potter and Black vaults until you are of age and gain your inheritance. You can take anything from the smaller vaults left to you, of course. A galleon is equal to 17 sickles, and a sickle is equal to 29 knuts. A galleon is worth approximately 5 pounds,” Griphook recited at his side. “That is the base amount. When you’re fifteen, another 300,000 galleons will be dispensed into your vault for you to spend on your Coming of Age ceremony, which will take place on your sixteenth birthday. After that point, you will have full access to each and every one of the vaults listed under your name.”

Harry was speechless. Just how rich was his family to be willing to spend _200,000_ galleons on a glorified birthday party? Sure, he had seen the outrageous figures detailed under the Potter and Black family vaults on his inheritance papers. But 300,000 galleons-almost _two million_ pounds-seemed to be going overboard. He took a deep breath, then pushed the thought out of his mind. Perhaps the ceremony was more important than he thought it to be.

After all, he was new to the magical world. He should reserve any and all judgments on their practices until he learned all he could.

Forcing his attention back to the matter at hand, Harry began to mentally calculate the amount of money he’d need. 

He had a list of all the materials he’d require in school. But outside of that, he also planned to purchase a few books to get himself caught up on the customs and traditions of the wizarding world. He also had to read up on history, Hogwarts, his own family, and of course, _magic_.

Turning his gaze towards the mounds of coins, Harry felt another wave of annoyance. He was not going to carry around a heavy sack on his back. Briefly, he wondered if wizards had bags that could carry enough coins yet still be compact and lightweight. Or perhaps, something akin to credit cards?

“We are able to provide you with an expandable pouch with adjustable size and weight,” Griphook coughed, reading Harry’s thoughts. “If you want, you can also directly purchase items in stores and they will sent expense here for us to sort out. That is a feature available only to the more wealthy of our client. Including you, Mr. Potter.”

Harry pushed the previous thoughts out of his mind. “That’s perfect. Do I need to carry identification?”

“Your magic is enough,” Griphook explained. “When you underwent the ancestry test, we already acquired a sample of your magic and have keyed it into your vaults. Most stores should accept this form of payment. All you’ll be required to do is leave behind a copy of your receipt with remnants of your magical signature.”

“Are there stores that don’t offer this service?” Harry asked, catching the word ‘most’ in the goblin’s sentence.

Griphook smiled crookedly. “Mr. Potter, you’ll soon come to learn that there are certain things that witches and wizards don’t want to be seen purchasing, never mind leaving behind evidence that they did. There is no way to trace a galleon back to its owner.”

“Ah,” Harry nodded. He peered contemplatively at the coins again, before heaving a sigh. “How much do you charge for one of those bags?”

 

 

* * *

 

“It was nice doing business with you. A word of advice before we part, Mr. Potter. It would do you well to hide that scar you have across your forehead.”

Harry raised a brow but smoothed down his bangs nonetheless. “Thank you, Griphook. Until next time.”

“Until next time, Mr. Potter. Have a pleasant day.”

Afterward, Harry strolled down the steps of Gringotts with a small pouch tucked safely in his pant pockets. He paused before the line of shops and decided that it would be best to first acquire a proper set of wizarding attire. The strange and occasionally disdainful glances cast his way were more than enough to reinforce his decision.

A cheerful chime sounded when he stepped through the double doors of _Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions_.

“Oh, hello, dear,” a cheerful voice sounded. Harry turned his head just in time to see a short and chubby witch dressed in mauve appear from behind a stack of colourful fabrics. “I’m Madam Malkin, and I’ll be helping with your fitting today. A bit early for Hogwarts shopping, isn’t it?”

“Hello,” Harry greeted. “It’s not for Hogwarts. I was hoping to purchase some everyday wear. Do you offer express services?”

Harry knew that someone would pick him up for school shopping in a week. It would be suspicious if he had nothing to buy, so he decided that he would simply purchase a few extracurricular books and the like that day and leave all of his school supplies for the following week.

Madam Malkin’s rounded eyes flickered down to his hand-me-downs from Mossdale’s Orphanage, and she clucked her tongue. Her gaze was almost pitying. “Ah. I can see why you’d need it.” Then her smile brightened. “But that’s alright, dear. One set of robes complete with shoes will be done in a quarter-hour. I can have the rest delivered to you via Owl Post.”

“Let’s do that, then,” Harry agreed, following the cheery woman into the shop and stepping up onto a square stool. A _thwap_ sounded suddenly as a roll of measuring tape straightened, giving itself a good shake before flying over and hovering just behind Harry.

“Casual, dear? Any preferred materials?” Madam Malkin asked, directing the tape with a flick of the hand.

“I’ll take 3 sets casual, and 2 sets formal,” Harry decided. Then, thinking of the colder winter days he had to suffer through in the orphanage, he added, “I’ll also take two sets of winter robes. I’ll take the best you have, as long as it’s versatile and comfortable.”

“Good choice, dear. Any colour preferences?”

“I was thinking something low-toned. Black or dark blue, maybe?”

“Alright. A set in black and another in dark blue. Green would also be flattering. It brings out the colour of your eyes,” Madam Malkins suggested, sending the measuring tape around Harry’s waist.

“Make it a forest green.” Harry assented. He wasn’t too picky about the colour of his clothes as long as it didn’t make him stand out in a crowd. Thinking back to Dumbledore’s robes, he grimaced.

“Anything else, dear?” Madam Malkins stepped back, satisfied. The measuring tape rolled itself up again and returned to its place atop a messy desk. “We have got a shipment of pure acromantula silk-just came in this morning. They’d make fine sleeping robes. With your large purchase today, I’ll even throw in a discount. How’s that?”

Harry considered for a moment, then nodded. “Two sets.”

He didn’t know what acromantulas were, but it sounded comfortable enough. He added the term to his ever-growing mental list of research topics. He was prepared to have a busy remainder of the summer.

“Shoes?” 

“Two pairs,” Harry answered quickly. “Darker colours, and preferably on the durable side.”

Madam Malkin retreated into the backroom, humming a bright tune to herself. Harry sat himself down on a long bench at the side of the room, eyeing the shop with interest while he waited. True to her word, the witch strolled out fifteen minutes later with a finished black robe floating along behind her. A pair of rich brown boots followed a moment later, setting itself down before Harry with a thump.

“All done, dear,” she motioned to a nearby door, which swung open at her wave. “If you like, you could get changed here.” Harry nodded in thanks. “Here’s an expandable pouch for your old clothes, if you’d like to keep them.”

Harry took the proffered pouch and headed into the room. A moment later he walked back out, dressed snugly in a form-fitting black robe that reached down to his ankles and a pair of sturdy seeming yet somehow lightweight boots. There were intricate designs woven along the sleeves and edges of his robe in black velvet, and anyone skilled enough to tell from a glance that the material used was of the highest quality.

Madam Malkin took in his new appearance and beamed widely, a proud glint in her eyes.

“Can I pay by magic signature?” Harry asked.

The witch looked surprised at his words but nodded quickly nonetheless. She probably wasn’t expecting a scrawny boy dressed in worn clothes to utilize Gringott’s high-end payment services.

“Three sets of casual, two set of winter, and two sets of sleeping robes. Two pairs of boots, adjustable up and down 2 sizes. Your total comes up to 78 galleons and 3 sickles. Delivery fees to London will be an extra 9 galleons altogether.” Madam Malkin informed him, handing over a parchment detailing everything she just said. 

Harry read through the list, then nodded. It was just under four hundred pounds, much cheaper than he expected, and if the robes and boots he wore were anything to go by, he was getting quite the deal. He remembered some of the orphanage’s wealthier visitors clad in stiff, uncomfortable seeming fancy thousand-pound suits, and couldn’t stop the sharp smile that pulled at the corners of his lip.

But then again, magic probably made everything easier, hence the cheaper price. He let a tendril of his magic sink into the parchment, which shone with a pale glow for a moment. Harry handed the receipt back to the woman, hesitating as he took in her wide-blown eyes.

“What’s wrong?” His brows furrowed.

“N-nothing,” Madam Malkin shook her head and said shakily. “Sorry about that, dear. You must be quite the magical prodigy, huh? And at such a young age, too.”

Harry hummed noncommittally, watching as the address of the orphanage inked itself across the bottom of the page. If that simple use of magic was enough to cause the witch that much shock, Harry decided that it would be best to hold back most of what he could do in front of others.

One day, the world will know what he is capable of. But it would be dangerous to reveal too much talent when he was still new to that world.

“I’m coming back for my school robes next week,” he brought up. “Would it be alright to pick up my order then? There is no need for deliveries.”

Madam Malkin gave her agreement, still staring at him with a complicated gaze.

Harry thanked the seamstress again before stepping back out into Diagon Alley, now blending in much more easily with the crowd. Now he could head for the place he’d looked forward to going to all along: the bookstore.

_Flourish & Blotts_ was nearly entirely empty when Harry entered. The aged wizard sitting behind the counter barely glanced up at him before turning his attention back to his paper. Harry cut through the shelves, eyes scanning over the titles of the countless books. Whenever he found one that interested him, it would slide out from its place and join the small pile floating beside him. Harry made sure that it was out of sight of the other occupant in the room so that he wouldn’t elicit another response like Madam Malkin’s.

Before making his way back to the front of the store, he checked through his selection once more. There were over a dozen books, including ones on magical creatures, the history of magic, important people in the wizarding world, old and powerful families, traditional customs and etiquette for witches and wizards, wizarding holidays, Hogwarts, and of course, magic itself. Of all the books he chose, Harry had two that he was particularly looking forward to. One was _Different Types of Magic and Their Applications_ , and the second was _An Unbiased Overview of Banned Magics_.

When he lugged the books over to the front counter, the older wizard behind it gave him a bemused stare. His face quickly lifted into a smile, however, when he took in Harry’s obviously costly robes. “How may I help you today, young heir?” The man asked as Harry began to load the counter with his books.

“Do you sell school bags with expandable and light-weight charms?” Harry asked. “Something that can fit at least all of these.” He motioned to the pile that currently stood taller than him.

The wizard’s lip twitched, but he quickly hid his amusement. “We can provide a temporarily charmed bag that’ll last the day, but if you’re looking for long-lasting trunks and packs, _L.C. Rossin’s Quality Leathers_ should have what you’re looking for.”

“Thank you,” Harry nodded, then paid for his purchases before exiting the shop. 

_L.C. Rossin’s Quality Leathers_ was only a few away. When Harry crossed over the threshold, the smell of tanned leather and aged wood instantly washed over him. He looked around the shop, admiring the intricate silvery designs on some of the larger trunks and the rich, deep brown sheets of leather that hung from the walls. Somewhere further in the shop, a cuckoo clock sounded.

“Good afternoon, young sir,” a pleasant voice drifted down from the second floor. Harry looked up to see a middle-aged man in a white dress shirt, trousers, and a brown apron make his way down the stairs. “Are there anything in particular you’re looking for, today?”

“Good afternoon,” Harry echoed, gazing around the room. “I’m hoping to find a durable school bag with expandable and lightweight charms. A trunk, too. Something that’ll last me through all seven years at Hogwarts.” At the mention of the school, the other wizard’s face broke out in a grin. “Privacy wards and detection charms, as well,” Harry added, remembering the few terms he came across while skimming one of the upper year textbooks. 

“A first-year, eh?” The man grinned. “Lloyd Columbus Rossin, at your service. But you can just call me Rossin. Everything sold here is guaranteed to last for at least three decades without showing any sign of wear, and after that, if properly cared for, it can last for up to two centuries and still function. That’s the thing about leather-if it’s authentic it can last a lifetime.”

Harry nodded along. “Then that’s fine by me. Can you add sizing charms, as well?”

“Just a moment. I’ll retrieve an order form so you can choose from all the services we offer,” Rossin said happily, flourishing his wand. A browned parchment drifted over into his open palm, and he passed it to Harry. “All wards and charms will be added in the form of runes, and will, therefore, last as long as the product does. However, that also means extra expenses will be added.”

Harry tipped his head in acknowledgment, skimming through the list of possible add-ons. There were a variety of protective charms and wards, including anti-burn, anti-freeze, anti-creature damage, curse protection, security wards, privacy wards, anti-modification charms, anti-intruder/theft ward, waterproofing charms and a few more. There were also several functions enhancing options, such as the expansion charm, lightweight charm, resizing charm, and soundproofing-

“Soundproof?” Harry read, looking up towards Rossin for clarification. “What do you need to soundproof a trunk, for?”

Rossin, in return, looked equally confused. “You are looking for trunks with other compartments, right?”

“Other compartments?” Harry tilted his head.

“If you’re looking to splurge, we have trunks that contain what might as well be a manor,” Rossin motioned proudly to a collection of larger trunks stacked along the side wall. “We also have built-in libraries, rooms, fields or rocky outcroppings if you’re looking to house larger pets, potion labs, and herb gardens. Oh, I almost forgot. Our newest arrival comes with a duelling room, so that’s also an option.”

Harry swallowed his surprise. Even after he had steeled his determination to accept whatever seemingly impossible concepts the wizarding world will introduce, he was still thrown by the sheer incredulity of fitting an entire pasture or garden inside a trunk.

“Can I custom order one to fit what I need?” He asked, visibly surprising the other wizard again.

“Well, of course. But very few people ever do it,” Rossin’s expression was a complicated mix of apologetic amusement and hesitation. “All our trunks here are mass produced and prepared in advance. If there are specifications, I would have to purchase individual wards from ward masters abroad and have them shipped over. The trunk would also have to be made from scratch in order to curtail to the buyer’s needs. In the end, the price isn’t one that most people can afford, and even if they can, it’s not one that most would be _willing_ to pay.”

Harry hummed. “What is the price of the most versatile trunk, with every add-ons?”

Rossin blinked, but complied anyway.“Our most expensive prepaid trunk comes with every protective measure and function included in a package. It includes a eight bedroom manner complete with a library, warded storeroom, kitchen, garden, potions lab, and a two acres quidditch pitch. It is 6000 galleons.”

Harry’s brows rose. Thirty thousand pounds for the equivalent of a countryside mansion, with over 2 acres of spare land. He had expected a much more ludicrous estimate when Rossin stated that it was a price many couldn’t afford.

On the other hand, Rossin must have read Harry’s surprise differently, for he gave a wry smile. “Of course, that is our most expensive model. It trumps even some of the simpler custom-made orders. Most of our other products are much cheaper-”

“I would like to make a custom order,” Harry spoke up. “Do you have pen-er, a quill? And parchment, of course.”

Rossin stared at him dubiously. At Harry’s unrelenting gaze, he finally took out a slip of scrap parchment along with a quill from the pockets of his robes. “Here you are.”

Harry outlined what he would like, reading them out as he did. Rossin had said that the trunk would last for decades, maybe even a lifetime. If so, he would rather invest extra money to get exactly what he wanted than to have to upgrade a few years down the road.

“I want there to be an adjustable standard size where I can comfortably pull it along. It should be rectangular and fashioned after a suitcase-with retractable wheels along the side, like so.” He drew out a rough sketch, ignoring Rossin’s stunned silence. “The wheels are only useable in the standard size. Naturally, there has to be a resizing option. This is so that I can make it small enough to carry on my person when I’m not able to lug a trunk behind me, and larger for easier access when I set it down. I want the best leather you have-functionality wise. As for the components, obviously, it has to be able to function as a regular trunk. It should be able to second as a closet as well. I also want a library that is directly connected to the trunk, so I’ll be able to retrieve books without having to enter myself. Make it big. There also have to be a warded ritual room and multiple barriers so that there is no chance for _anyone_ to detect the going-ons within. Also, include a ice room with built in stasis charms so whatever foods I store down there will remain fresh. Add a small potion lab and duelling room-there’s no need for a platform. Oh, don’t forget a studio room.” 

At Rossin’s numb, questioning stare, Harry continued. “It’s just a large room with nothing in it. The size of this shop should be enough. Add a fireplace to it; I want to be able to make floo calls. No floo-travel, I know that’s impossible from a trunk. But calls should be fine, right?”

Rossin gave a slow, dazed nod, and he jotted it down in satisfaction.

“As for the charms and protections…I’ll take all of them. Make it the strongest you can have and keyed _only_ to my magic and my blood. But change the anti-alteration ward so that I, and only I, will be able to make modifications. Ah-I nearly forgot. Add a secret compartment within the trunk that’ll only open when all specifications have been met. I’ll list them here.” He continued to scribble on the nearly full page, taking care to not smudge any of his words. “Appearance-wise, go for the classical, quality look. Nothing too flashy or gaudy. That’s good for now. I think.”

Harry set the the quill on the paper with a sigh, looking upwards at Rossin. The other wizard was currently at a loss for words. His eyes were widened and lips pressed in a thin line, almost as if he was trying to prevent himself from gapping.

“Mr. Rossin?” Harry called out tentatively. 

He knew he didn’t act like a child most of the time, but that was only a given when he grew up surrounded by children who either hated or feared him. Books have always been his constant companion, and having so much time to think allowed him to mature much faster than other kids his age.

Unfortunately, everyone else expected him to act like one. When he did, the result was always the same disbelieving stare. Harry sighed in resignation.

“Mr. Rossin, would this be alright?” He asked again.

This time the man shook himself out of his stupor, and hesitantly took the parchment. His eyes scanned down its contents and his mouth opened and closed a few times before he inhaled deeply. “This…”

“Is it possible?” Harry pressed.

“Yes, it is. However…”

“What is the estimated price?”

Rossin stared at him as if he was crazy. Which Harry supposed was fair. After all, he was a ten years old boy-who looked even _younger_ -who simply strolled in through the door and began acting as if he would actually purchase a trunk worth over a thousand galleons.

“While this is significantly smaller than our most expensive case,” the wizard began in a dulled voice, clearly shaken. “The ritual room would be much more expensive to build than any bedrooms or sport fields. Your requirement for there to be minimal magic leakage-”

“None,” Harry corrected. “I want there to be _no_ magical leakage whatsoever.”

“No magical leakage, my apologies,” Rossin amended, continuing on. “That would also require the services of a warding grandmaster, which isn’t exactly…cheap. A secret compartment within an already tightly warded and charmed trunk…that’ll require some _very_ intricate spell work.”

“How much?” Harry asked, impatient and hoping to get to the point. “How much would it cost in total?”

“If you are willing to wait a year, it’d be 8000 galleons. We would spend a portion of the money to dispatch a team of contract wizards and witches to gather the needed materials. The actual construction wouldn’t take that long. A week or so, at most. But if you want it by the start of the school year,” Rossin paused, thinking deeply. “We would express order the materials from stores but it would be much more expensive. Probably…8700 galleons and it’ll be ready for pick up by the next weekend.”

“Consider it done,” Harry nodded. It would be useful to have a private room for him to practice his magic in without drawing unwanted attention to himself, as well as somewhere to hide some of the more questionable items he may be acquiring. It was worth any price. “8700 galleons, was it? Do you accept payment by magical signature?”

Rossin’s eye twitched violently. It would have been funny to see such an expression of shock on the face of a fancily dressed wizard, had Harry not been the subject of a few too many similar expressions over the years. 

Wordlessly the man made his way over to the counter and returned moments later holding a smaller slip of paper. Harry took it and promptly entered his magic, seeing the pale flash that marked the completion of the transaction. If anything, Rossin actually appeared more stunned that Harry had successfully _paid_.

“I can pick up in person. Next weekend, you said?” Harry asked, preparing to head out once more.

It was only then that Rossin’s years honed instinct snapped him back to the present and he gave a bow, expression becoming more composed. “I’ll see you then. It was an honour to conduct business with you, young heir.”

“Likewise,” Harry murmured, slightly miffed at the previously easy going shopkeeper’s sudden change in mannerisms.

Once he was at the door, he suddenly stopped and turned around again. “Oh. I still something for my books. Do you have any that are ready for purchase?”

 

 

* * *

 

Harry left _L.C. Rossin’s Quality Leathers_ with a sophisticated school bag hanging over one shoulder. It was done in reddish brown leather and white gold clasps, complete with silvery zipper and the name ‘Potter’ etched in the bottom left corner.

Rossin had stared at him with suspicion and dawning realization when he gave his family name, but had enough tact not to directly question him. For a moment Harry got the strangest sensation that he had known _exactly_ who he was. Thinking of it, the goblin had also said something along the same lines of his scar drawing excessive attention.

Harry hated nothing more than being left in the dark. His grip tightened around the straps of his new bag. Even with the fifteen books it held, it was still comfortably light and settled snuggly at his side.

The next most important thing would probably be to get himself caught up with the current wizarding world. Mind made up, Harry headed back towards the inconspicuous entrance of the _Leaky Cauldron_. On the way, he stopped by a stall to pick up a roll of parchment, a set of quills, and a bottle of ink. Otherwise, he determinedly ignored the other eye drawing shops and his own tingling curiosity.

After a hearty lunch at the small pub, Harry left Diagon Alley behind and found himself back in the magicless streets of muggle London. The shift was so drastic and complete that there was a part of him that felt a swell of panic at the thought that perhaps he had imagined it all, but he pushed down the thought. He knew better than to question what he saw with his own eyes. 

On the way back to the orphanage, Harry ignored the blatant staring of the other passengers on the bus. His new robe stood out in a crowd of t-shirts and shorts, but he had chosen one that had a classical enough look that it could easily be passed off as an old-fashioned suit. Besides, Harry didn’t care all that much about what these muggles thought of him. It wasn’t like they were ever going to meet again, anyways.

When he finished the 10 minutes trek from the bus stop and stepped into Mossdale’s Orphanage, he was met with even more wide eyed stares and whisperings. Harry hid an eye roll when a grubby boy openly struck a finger in his direction while chattering loudly to his companion.

_One more week_. Harry told himself. _One more week, and then you’ll be free_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, that was a long chapter...Don't worry, though. Most chapters will be much shorter than this. There just wasn't place to end the chapter without it seeming awkward.
> 
> Anyway-
> 
> In this story, Dumbledore won't be exactly evil, per say. He means well and he does care for Harry, but he is still controlling and pushing Harry into a role he is not willing to play.
> 
> Also at this point, Dumbledore still haven't discovered the horcrux in Harry's scar yet, and with Harry being Lily and James' son, he doesn't fully believe that Harry can be capable of causing the incidents in the orphanage.
> 
> (Obviously he is a believer of nature over nurture when it comes to Harry Potter.
> 
> He is also wrong)


	3. Diagon Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Hogwarts Professor arrives to take Harry shopping. At Diagon Alley, Harry meets the Malfoy Heir and acquired a wand.
> 
> For the first time, Harry hears of the name 'Tom Marvolo Riddle'.
> 
> His interest has been effectively piqued…

The following week flew by. Harry’s day consisted of endless reading. He carried a tome with him wherever he went. At breakfast, lunch, and dinner, Harry sat alone at his own table in the corner, as usual, but this time a large book laid open before him. Everyday he walked around with something different. Anyone who saw it would probably say that he wasn’t reading the books at all. After all, who could read _that_ fast? And he was barely eleven years old.

But as it stood, neither the adults or children cared enough to analyze ‘freaky’ Harry’s every move. So, his newfound habit was promptly ignored and dismissed.

Meanwhile, Harry found himself bouncing between a number of emotions while he read, but mainly three: exasperation, amazement, and frustration.

Once he had understood the entire _Boy Who Lived_ fiasco, Harry felt a breadth away from an aneurysm. 

Who in their right minds could possibly believe that one of the most powerful and influential wizards at the time could be felled at the chubby fists of a one-year-old _infant_!? Whatever magical schools taught, common sense obviously wasn’t included. His annoyance only grew when he realized that he had been _idolized_ for nearly ten years. Meaning, he had somehow attained celebrity status amongst witches and wizards for something he didn’t even remember doing and managed to maintain it up to that day.

It was no wonder Griphook had seemed so gleeful and amused upon discovering the numerous smaller vaults under his name. It turns out that they were all gifts from _fans_. Harry had shaken his head with disbelief when he came to that realization. Was the magical world so lacking of a hero that a child could so easily take up the mantle? It was a sobering thought. 

And it turned out that his scar, of all things, was a beacon of their hope. Apparently, it was sufficient proof that the Dark Lord had indeed been vanquished. Thinking back to Rossin’s shining, knowing gaze, Harry scoffed.

He was no hero. He was simply an orphan who grew up hidden away in the muggle world, always targeted because he was _different_. And the one who had decided to strip the first ten years of his life of magic and waste all that time he could’ve spent learning about the wizarding world?

None other than Albus Dumbledore.

Perhaps the man had done it with good intentions. The books had all been very clear that Dumbledore was the appointed magical guardian of Harry Potter after his godfather, Sirius Orion Black, was sentenced to the wizard prison of Azkaban. He had sworn to prioritize Harry’s safety. From the fond gazes he remembered, he was certain that the man had _meant_ to, regardless of whether it was out of concern for the Boy Who Lived or for the son of the deceased Lily and James Potter. 

Harry also knew that Death Eaters, followers of the ‘vanquished’ Dark Lord, was still scouring about and out for _his_ blood. On a lighter note, there were also packs of reporters and admirers who would climb over one another just to catch a glimpse of him.

But surely there were better places to hide a baby than in the home of Petunia and Vernon Dursley. And didn’t that come around to bite the old wizard in the backside when even he couldn’t locate Harry until his Hogwarts letter was out. That tidbit of information hadn’t exactly been made public, but it wasn’t hard to infer from Dumbledore’s anxious and guilty expressions upon first meeting him, and his following relieved one when Harry didn’t seem to be anything more than a curious, overachieving child.

Another matter that Harry had felt quite miffed about was his title as the supposed ‘Saviour of the Light’. Without bothering to wait until he was old enough to make his own choices, they had automatically assumed his standing in the wizarding world. Simply because his parents were on the side of the Light didn’t mean that he was going to be. 

While he leaned away from the Light, he hasn’t completely decided if he wanted to side with the Dark, either. At that point, he was still severely lacking in information. He decided that he’d need to know a lot more if he was ever to choose.

In fact, Harry had already finished three books detailing the differences between Light and Dark, as well as numerous different type of magics. While the information had been fascinating and eye-opening, the conclusions left him with a bitter taste in his mouth.

For decades, pureblood witches and wizards had to bend backward to fit the increasing numbers of muggleborns into their ranks. While this wasn’t bad in itself, pureblood families with roots going back for _centuries_ were forced to give up certain beliefs and traditions in order to facilitate the muggleborns’ introduction into their world. And if they so much as raised a word of protest, they were instantly labelled dark and were persecuted.

Harry had glowered for the good part of a day after reading the books. Once again, _political correctness_ was put above what should have been the most important and sacred thing: magic.

Soon enough, those in charge began to siphon power from the older families by labelling certain hereditary magics or talents as ‘Dark’. This then grew to include certain spells that required a high base potential of magic to cast, and then anything that was deemed too powerful.

It was simply an excuse for levelling the playing field.

As a result of fear, numerous wondrous magical arts were suppressed, banned, and killed off. The weak feared what they don’t understand. For the fraction of a moment, Harry found himself deeply loathing an entire group of individuals.

How _dare_ they.

Simply because they themselves weren’t powerful enough to utilize or defend against certain magics, the Light wizards decided to wipe that magic out of existence completely. They labelled it as ‘dangerous’ and ‘harmful’, but in the end, magic was magic. 

Even a levitation spell can break necks. A powerful _aguamenti_ can drown. It was the intention that drove the magic. No power was inherently good or evil. There was only the potential of the individual and how far they are willing to push themselves.

It was the same thing all over again with the magical beasts. Harry had finished a thick volume detailing common, rare, and extinct magical creatures of the world. He hadn’t been surprised to discover that several of the more powerful creatures, even relatively peaceful ones, had been hunted to extinction because of _fear_.

Not only did Light wizards push for the extermination of these creatures, they even targeted certain Dark families who were thought to be illegally breeding and sheltering banned animals. Harry had snorted upon reading to that point. The concept of an entire species being banned was _ludicrous_. Who were they to decide whether or not the creatures deserved to live? They, too, had magical blood. Why was it necessary to kill them off when they always kept to themselves on the outskirts of society and never purposefully bothered the wizardkind?

Perhaps the Dark families kept them for ulterior motives, such as harvesting shed skin or the like, but at least they were trying to preserve while certain magicals were trying to _destroy_. 

Harry was angry. No, he had been _furious_. He was angry at the Light for cornering magic when it deserved to expand and grow, he was angry at the Dark for not putting up a fight when their masthead disappeared, and he was angry at the newly graduated muggleborns for blindly siding with the Light and fighting to ban all of the Old Traditions for good when they themselves never bothered to learn.

Why should the original witches and wizards give way when the muggleborns were the intruders upon their world? Why were the muggleborns always so adamant about holding tight to their own non-magical beliefs when they should’ve been embracing a new culture?

Of course, there were some muggleborns that did. But as it stood, the vast majority still hovered between the two worlds, wanting to remain a part of the Magical Society yet not willing to part with the Non-magical one.

Harry knew that he would give up Christmas, Easter, and Halloween in a heartbeat if it meant that he could keep his magic.

Thinking back to the war, he felt another wave of anger. Every Dark family was severely punished after the Dark Lord fell. The Light side had been clamouring for justice. They spoke of all the deaths and destruction and cruel actions of the Dark. But it was during a time of _war_. Light wizards had also killed, blown apart buildings, _tortured_ …even after the war they had thrown the heir of one of the oldest pureblood families into Azkaban without so much as a mention of a trial.

Sirius Black was the prime example of the Light side’s, ironically enough, darker side. Harry still wasn’t certain whether the man was guilty or not, but he knew that the Light side never bothered to find out. If he was guilty, then there was no harm done. But if he was innocent…well, they got to cut off one of the most powerful Dark families, so it wasn’t like they suffered any losses.

The man was said to have betrayed Lily and James Potter. Yet interestingly enough, he cared enough about Harry to make him the heir of the entire Black family fortune. Remembering the vault that held more gold _by far_ than even the Potter Vault that listed Harry, the Boy Who Lived and son of Lily and James, as the sole inheritor, Harry felt increasingly unsure of the Light side’s verdict.

In fact, history seemed to be playing on a loop. But the loop was getting smaller and smaller, and it was steadily closing in on none other than magic itself. At the rate the Light side was going, all advanced magical arts would soon be gone.

During the war against Grindelwald, the Defense Against the Dark Arts course had still been called the ‘Dark Arts’. The class had been much more practical and focused on harmful hexes and counters. Currently, there was more theory than anything else, since _apparently_ all potentially magics were already banned, so there was no need to learn to defend against them.

It was an idiotic idea at best, and a dangerous one at worst.

Witches and wizards were already beginning to lag behind muggles as a result of the muggles’ rapidly developing technology. If they two peoples should come to blows, how could magic possibly stand a chance when their numbers were so much fewer and when they’ve already done so much to disarm themselves? 

No. Magickind has to be prepared, whether or not war with muggles will actually break out. Muggles weren’t the only dangers they might face, either.

For one, the American Wizarding society was much more lax with their views on different forms of magic. Even Germany was much more accepting of predominantly dark families than Britain was, and Germany had to suffer through _Grindelwald_. Lord Grindelwald’s sphere of influence had been much greater than Lord Voldemort’s ever was. Needless to say, the former also shed much more blood. Voldemort’s reign had been stemmed right before its peak, thanks to no other than Harry himself, apparently.

At the thought, Harry found himself openly sneering. He usually wasn’t too open with his expressions, but after a week of reading and thinking, his disgust towards the current workings of Britain’s magical society was almost bordering on the intolerable.

A knock on the door interrupted his musings.

“Harry?” Ms. Ellis spoke. “A professor McGonagall is here. Are you due to head out for school already? Have you finished packing?” She sounded almost hopeful at the prospect of Harry leaving the orphanage.

Harry sat up, slightly surprised. 

The building only had one entrance. He had a clear view of the yard the entire time and he would’ve bet that no one had stepped foot in the garden while he had kept watch. That was interesting. At Ms.Ellis’s questioning stare, he hummed, not bothering to correct her misconception.

The only reason he stayed the extra week at the orphanage was that he knew a professor would be arriving to pick him up. Once they had gotten the shopping trip over with, he was free to do as he liked, and he certainly wasn’t opting to stay at Mossdale’s. 

Quickly changing into his orphanage outdoor clothes, he proceeded to shrink down his school bag and slide it into his pocket. All of his books and writing utensils were already stored inside anyways. It wouldn’t do for the professor to see him with something that he shouldn’t be in possession of. He would deal with the muggle outfit; he’d be rid of it as soon as they paid a visit to Madam Malkin’s anyways.

When Harry arrived downstairs, he was met with the sight of a tall, strictly looking woman with greying hair tightly coiled beneath a broad-rimmed witch’s hat. There was a seriousness to her that Dumbledore had lacked. Harry soon found himself subconsciously straightening under her piercing blue gaze.

“Good morning, Mr. Potter,” the woman gave a tight nod. Harry returned the greeting.

“I am Minerva McGonagall, and I will be your transfiguration professor once the school year begins,” she introduced herself, a small smile softening the hard lines set in her face. “Are you excited to be starting at Hogwarts?”

“I am,” Harry replied, and he didn’t even have to lie. He _was_ excited to begin learning all he could about the magical world. While he may have had some innate potential for using windless magic-that was another term he had come across in his studies-there were certain subjects that he just couldn’t efficiently self-study, such as potions or ward creation. Any practical subjects were naturally also dangerous. Having a knowledgeable professor would be quintessential to avoiding any mishaps.

“I’m looking forward to seeing you in class, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall gave him another one of her tight-lipped smiles. “Your father was quite the prodigy in transfiguration.”

Harry followed the woman as she began to make her way out of the orphanage. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see children huddled in the halls pointing and whispering. Judging from the stiffening of Professor McGonagall’s expression, she did too.

“Mr. Potter,” the witch spoke up as they stepped onto the streets of London. “Headmaster Dumbledore has informed me that you knew quite little of our kind.”

Harry suppressed a grimace at the reminder. “I do have some catching up to do,” he admitted.

He began to mentally sort through some of his newly acquired questions. Hereditary arts and the banned magics have more than piqued his interest. He would have to somehow locate a few older books on the subjects, most likely from a source beyond the Ministry of Magic’s reach.

“Well, I would just like you to know that my office is always open to you should you have any questions,” Professor McGonagall offered kindly. 

“Thank you, professor,” Harry accepted easily, somewhat surprised that the other had ever made the suggestion in the first place.

“It’s the least I can do.” A sad, nostalgic expression overcame her features. Harry recognized the look as the same one Dumbledore had a week prior. _Ah_. Another friend of his parents, then. 

They suddenly made a sharp turn into a side alley and came to a stop.

“I will be Apparating us to the established Apparation point in the _Leaky Cauldron_ ,” Professor McGonagall declared, sliding her wand out from the pockets of her robes. “The sensation will take some getting used to, but it is a much faster form of travel than even the Knight Bus.” Her eyes flickered to Harry’s blank expression before adding: “The wizard equivalent of taxis. It can be summoned with the wave of a wand and will take you right to the doorstep of any destination. Within reason, of course.”

Harry nodded in understanding. He had read up about Apparation and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious to try it out.

“Grab onto my sleeve,” the witch instructed. “Hold on tight. This may get uncomfortable; it helps if you close your eyes.”

She flourished her wand and suddenly Harry felt them lurching forward. 

What followed was a sickening sensation of being squeezed through a too-small tube. An uncomfortable pressure was beginning to build up in his head before they were suddenly _thrown_ right into the corner of a dimly lit room. Absentmindedly, Harry recognized it as the backroom of the _Leaky Cauldron_.

His knees buckled, but somehow he managed to lay a steadying hand on the wall and remain upright. It took every ounce of his self-control to not heave on the spot. He decided right there and then that he _loathed_ side-along Apparation.

“Well done, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall’s expression was one of impressed surprise. “Not many are able to stand after their first experience in Apparating.”

“I’m not surprised,” Harry muttered through gritted teeth. The comment earned him a brief look of amusement before they were moving between the stacks of boxes and heading towards the back alley.

“In case you were not aware,” Professor McGonagall began. “You have quite a reputation in the wizarding world.”

“I know,” Harry inserted drily. He patted down his bangs pointedly. “I got it covered.”

They passed through the brick wall list before, and Harry found himself once again standing in the streets of Diagon Alley. The sight brought a wide smile onto his face.

“The first destination is Gringotts, correct?” Harry asked, not taking his eyes off of the wondrous shops around them. “Headmaster Dumbledore told me. I will be able to get there on my own.”

“Are you sure?” Professor McGonagall looked reluctant about letting him off alone. Given his moniker as the golden Boy Who Lived, Harry wasn’t surprised.

At his determined nod, the professor sighed. “If you insist. I do have some shopping to do myself, so I suppose we can meet up afterward and get your school supplies.”

“How about there?” Harry pointed at the shopfront of _Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions_.

“Ah,” Professor McGonagall hummed. “It would be smart to get your robes fitted before the crowds start pouring in. If I’m not out when you’re finished with Gringotts, you can head in first and hand Madam Malkins your school shopping list. She’ll know what to do.”

“Alright,” Harry agreed. He left towards Gringotts, and once he was sure that Professor McGonagall was out of sight, he ducked into a nearby diner.

Minutes later he strolled back out, heaving a sigh of relief that he was no longer the target of numerous pointed stares as a result of his orphanage hand-me-downs. 

Deciding that he had time to spare since the Gringotts trip was unnecessary, Harry decided to first pick up his trunk. The store was nearby anyway, so if Professor McGonagall returned earlier than expected, he would still be nearby. He unshrunk his leather schoolbag from his pockets and draped it over his shoulder.

The crowds were still quite thin since it was early morning. Harry quickly made his way down the alley and into _L.C. Rossin’s Quality Leathers_. Rossin must have been expecting him, for the moment he stepped passed the threshold, a bright greeting was directed his way.

“Heir Potter! Welcome!” Rossin grinned at him from across the room. His tone remained courteously polite, but he was much more at ease than when Harry had left the previous time.

“Mr. Rossin,” Harry nodded. “Is my trunk is ready for pick-up?”

“All done,” Rossin chirped, dramatically swishing his wand and bringing a wooden crate drifting over from the back of the room. Before touching the ground, the wood boards disassembled themselves and stacked into a neat pile against the wall.

What was left was a rectangular trunk with marble clasps and silver trimmings. The trunk itself was a stunning golden brown, reminiscent of the colour of burnt honey. The extendable handle on the side was made of a darker leather that bordered on ink-black. Similar to his bag, ‘ _Potter_ ’ was displayed across the bottom left corner in silvery letters.

“I had it sent to Gringotts for them to key it to your magic and blood,” Rossin explained. “This is a fine piece of work, I must say. One of my best, in fact.” He smiled proudly.

“It’s perfect,” Harry told him honestly. 

“Every ward and charm is doubly reinforced,” Rossin continued, a hint of embarrassment flickering across his features. “I may have mentioned your name in passing to the Wardmasters responsible for their creation. They all hoped to provide you with the best they can offer. The improvements are all free of charge, of course. I hope you don’t mind.”

Harry quirked a brow. While he normally wouldn’t appreciate someone else going behind his back and using his name without his permission, the fact was that he got the better deal out of it, so he had no complaints. 

Of course, it wasn’t as if Rossin was getting nothing from the affair, either. Harry supposed that being the ‘chosen brand’ of the Boy Who Lived was a big deal, but he didn’t mind allowing the man his bragging rights as long as he was getting top quality goods.

“That’s fine,” Harry assured the man. “But please keep my presence in Diagon Alley today to yourself. I’m hoping to get my school shopping done and it would be considerably more difficult if word got out.”

Rossin nodded enthusiastically. “Of course, consider it done! Thank you for honouring my store with your support, Heir Potter.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rossin. Then I’ll see you next time I have the need for your services,” Harry shrunk his new trunk and put it into his bag.

The leatherworker’s eyes practically glowed at Harry’s words. “Of course! We’ll be sure to live up to your expectations!”

Harry left the store fatigued. 

Being worshipped without basis was only slightly better than being hated for being different. He enjoyed it when others admired him, but only if it was the results of his own abilities. Currently, everyone seemed to be still fixated on the Boy Who Lived and not _Harry_. The title had been annoying when he first found it, but now it felt like some sort of burden. But no matter. Once he started at Hogwarts, he would make sure that the people would never associate his name with the _Light’s Saviour_ again.

Harry relaxed at the thought, joining the slowly moving crowds and heading towards _Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions_. Professor McGonagall wasn’t there yet, so he walked up the steps and entered the shop first.

To his surprise, there was already another boy around his age in the shop. He had a head of platinum hair and a sharp, angular face. Judging by the way he held himself, Harry knew that he was likely a Pureblood from an old family. In fact, he already had an idea of which one it might be.

“Oh, hello, dear! It’s nice to see you again,” Madam Malkin turned and smiled at Harry from where she stood directing the measuring tape around the blonde. “Are you here for your school robes this time? Come here, step right up to the stool.”

Harry obliged. He pulled out his school supplies list, but the seamstress was quick to wave it away.

“There’s no need,” she smiled pleasantly, snapping her fingers and calling over a second roll of measuring tape. “I’ve been in this business for years and the requirements never change. I know every word by heart.”

As Madam Malkin got to work muttering beneath her breath, Harry caught one of the blonde’s curious side glances. His gaze was appraising, giving Harry a once over and carefully taking in the details of his new robe. Harry could almost see the gears turning in his mind and could pinpoint the exact moment when the blonde made his decision.

“Hogwarts, too?” He asked, tone laced with an aristocratic arrogance.

“First year,” Harry replied, meeting pale blue eyes with his own.

“I’m Draco,” the other boy said, chin lifting ever so slightly. “Draco Malfoy.”

With his suspicions confirmed, Harry allowed himself a small smile. Then this was the only son and heir to Lucius Abraxas Malfoy and the next head of the old Pureblood Malfoy line. They were also one of the few Dark families that managed to entirely avoid persecution after the fall of the Dark Lord Voldemort, even though a blind man could tell that they were Death Eaters.

“Glad to make your acquaintance,” Harry replied smoothly. “I’m Harry. Harry Potter.”

The young Malfoy scion’s eyes widened before his Pureblood mask snapped back into place and a haughty smile touched his lips. At the same time, there was a bare tensing of his shoulders, as if he half expected Harry to sneer in disgust and leave upon finding out his Dark family name. “So the rumours are true. Harry Potter is attending Hogwarts. Have you thought about what House you’re going to be in? _I_ already know.”

“No doubt you’re aiming for Slytherin,” Harry quirked a brow, sidestepping Draco’s question. The Malfoys had been in Slytherin for generations, after all. It was a point of pride for them by that point.

“The one and only.” If at all possible, Draco seemed even more smug. “I supposed Ravenclaw is _tolerable_. As long as it isn’t Gryffindor, if you get what I mean.”

“Fair enough,” Harry acquiesced. “What subject do you think you’d be most interested in?”

Draco visibly relaxed now that Harry was continuing their conversation. “Potions for me. My godfather is a _Potions Grandmaster_ , if you must know. One of few in the world. In fact, he’s the potions professor at Hogwarts.”

Harry’s lip twitched upwards at the blonde’s blatant admiration for the professor. Behind them, Madam Malkins had finished with taking down the measurements. She flicked her wand and set down the measuring tapes before retreating into the back of the store, probably to prepare the fabrics.

“What about you? Defence Against the Dark Arts?” Draco asked in return, his tone implying that he didn’t expect it to be anything else.

Harry snorted. “I doubt that class is going to be teaching us much about defending ourselves _nor_ the Dark Arts. More likely all we’ll be taught are some impractical jinxes.”

Draco grinned. “I’m glad that someone agrees. During my _father_ ’s time, the class was still called the Dark Arts. It was much more interesting then, or so he says.”

“Maybe back then, I would considering making the class a personal favourite,” Harry smiled. “But as it stands now, I think that I prefer Warding.”

“Wards?” The young Malfoy’s brows shot up. “We don’t learn that until the late third year. Did your parents-er, sorry, I meant magical guardian-start you off on theory already?”

Harry was glad that the other boy didn’t make a big deal after slipping up, but rather glossed over the mistake in favour of voicing his question. He never knew his parents anyway, so it wasn’t like he was particularly affected when someone mentioned their passing. He hated feigned apologies, especially when the other party blatantly danced around the subject. Draco’s straightforwardness and self-assurance was a refreshing change. Even if he was still a spoiled brat.

“I’m self-learning it,” Harry informed his companion. “I grew up with muggles.” Draco made an empathetic sound. “In fact, my _magical guardian_ and I only met last week.” He turned and took in Draco’s stunned expression. “After all that, I’m not really expecting much from him.”

It wasn’t like he could hide the fact that he grew up in muggle London forever, so he might as well let the Malfoy heir know early on so it would seem that it wasn’t a big deal.

Draco paused for a moment, a strange glint flashing across his eyes as his face suddenly morphed into an expression of anger. “Is _Albus Dumbledore_ still listed as your magical guardian?” At Harry’s nod, the other boy scowled. “The nerves of the man. Merlin, I can’t believe he let the Potter Heir live amongst _muggles_.”

Before Harry could reply, Madam Malkin reentered the room. “Well, dears, your robes should be ready by the late afternoon. Are you looking to pick up in person or should I have it owl posted?”

“Owl,” both Harry and Draco said at the same time. Madam Malkin looked taken aback for a moment, but soon nodded.

“Names?”

“Draco Malfoy.”

Madam Malkin took the name without pause, probably already knowing who the boy was.

“Harry Potter.”

The quill hovering in the air dropped to the ground. Madam Malkin’s eyes widened, then rounded even further when he looked between him and Draco. She seemed surprised that some sort of Cold War hasn’t broken out already.

Draco coughed pointedly and only then did she seem to gather her bearings.

“Oh dear, sorry about that,” she swallowed, waving her wand and levitating the quill once more. “You took by surprise, that’s all. Oh, also, Mr. Potter, your order from last week is ready. Here you are.”

Another flick brought a small package drifting over from the side tables.

“Thanks,” Harry caught the bundle in one hand.

“It’s been charmed and resized so that you can easily carry it. It’s a one-time enchantment, so don’t undo the charms until you’re ready to unpack,” Madam Malkin informed him.

Harry slid the package in his bag, and stepped off the stool. He registered Draco following along behind him as he made to exist the store.

“Where are you headed to next?” Draco asked, stepping up beside him.

“I was planning to get my wand,” Harry replied. “Have you gotten yours yet?”

“I got mine last month,” Draco said smugly. “I wanted a head start to practice the spells, you see. The Malfoy manor is heavily warded and spelled, my father tells me, so the Ministry will never to be able to pick up on hints of underage magic.”

Harry’s step faltered but it was so slight that the Malfor heir didn’t catch the slip up. He purposefully slowed until they came to a stop near the door. “Underage magic?”

“Ah, that’s right,” a hint of annoyance flickered across Draco’s eyes, but Harry could tell that it wasn’t directed at him. “You grew up with _muggles_ , so you wouldn’t know. We’re not allowed to use magic outside of Hogwarts before we’re seventeen. But it doesn’t really apply for most pureblood heirs since the enchantments on their homes are strong enough to override whatever the Trace picks up on. Even the magic in Diagon Alley is enough to mess with the Trace. That’s what the Ministry uses to check for violations, you see. It’s a shame for you, though. Muggle Britain is fair game.”

“But I’ve done magic before,” Harry thought back to his Dursley days and the times when he had used his powers without even meaning too. “I never got into any trouble.”

Draco snorted. “That’s accidental magic. It happens to every magical child. The Trace doesn’t detect anything unless it’s from spells. But it doesn’t differentiate between who cast it, so if an adult wizard used a spell near where you’re staying, there’s a chance that the Ministry will label it as _you_ violating the ‘no underage magic’ rule.”

“So why can’t I just use magic without the spells?” Harry asked, seeing a loophole in the Ministry’s laws.

Draco stared at him as if he were insane. “You mean wandless magic? That’s even more difficult than wordless casting. It would take _years_ of practice to cast spells with a wand but without audible pronunciation, but even then it would still be caught by the Trace. As for wandless magic, it was simply impossible. While the Trace can’t detect it, you can’t just _learn_ wandless magic; you have to be born with the potential, and train it enough so that it stays with you even after you start casting with a wand. My father could probably count the number of witches or wizards in Britain who can do wandless magic on one hand with fingers to spare, and he knows _everyone_.”

“Oh.” Harry tilted his head, then started moving again, pushing through the shop doors. Draco followed behind him.

“Why did you ask?” The blonde questioned curiously.

Harry was fortunately saved from having to answer when he spotted Professor McGonagall’s pointed witch’s hat just outside the store. He didn’t want to reveal his magical talent when he still had so much more to learn and prepare for. Malfoy also seemed like the type to gossip endlessly, and Harry hoped to avoid being placed under any more scrutiny than he already was.

“Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall called out, pausing and blinking as her eyes drifted to his side. “Mr. Malfoy.”

A blonde witch was suddenly making her way towards them. She was dressed in tasteful teal robes and her silvery hair was pulled back from the sides of her face and pinned. Harry could tell from a single glance that this was Draco’s mother. The family resemblance was uncanny.

“Mother!” Draco strode forward, somehow still appearing graceful despite his rapid speed. “Look who I met while getting my robes.”

The young witch turned to Harry and smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I am Narcissa Malfoy of the Ancient and Noble House of Malfoys. Will you be attending Hogwarts this year, too?”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Malfoy,” Harry said respectfully while maintaining eye contract, which he had learned was the proper sign of goodwill when meeting the Lord or Lady of a Pureblood family. “My name is Harry Potter, Heir to the Ancient and Noble House of Potter and the Ancient and Noble House of Black. To answer your question, I will be starting as a first year along with Draco.”

Narcissa seemed surprised by his words, whether it be his Pureblood mannerisms or the revelation of his future lordships. Professor McGonagall, who looked as if she had been preparing to intervene, froze as well.

“Black!?” Draco spluttered from the side, completely forgoing his dignified mask. “We’re cousins!?”

“Draco!” Narcissa scolded. “Don’t gape. It’s rude.”

Draco blushed.

“I’m sure every Pureblood are related in some way,” Harry quirked an eyebrow. “But yes. I suppose we are quite closely related.”

“And how did you come by that knowledge, Mr. Potter?” Professor McGonagall asked, sounding faint. She probably didn’t expect him to know of his ties to his imprisoned godfather.

“When I visited Gringotts, I discovered that I had been made the heir of the current Lord Black,” Harry replied nonchalantly.

All three of his audience reacted in various degrees, most likely his casual mention of the man who was thought to have betrayed his parents to the Dark Lord and to have murdered over a dozen muggles in cold blood.

“But I am also related to the Blacks by birthright,” Harry continued, thinking back to the book he purchased on old Pureblood Houses which included a long and detailed chart of his own family. “My paternal grandmother was a Black from the direct family line.”

A long silence reigned after his explanation.

“A Black and a Potter?” Draco was the the first to recover. His eyes were widened in fascination. “Next, you’ll be telling me that the Weasleys are distant family to the Malfoys!”

They were, but Harry didn’t care to further shatter Draco’s world view.

Nacissa gave her son a disapproving stare for his outburst. Then, once he seemed appropriately chastised, she turned steely blue eyes on Harry and gave him a much more sincere smile. It seemed that he had somehow earned her recognition, if not her approval.

“Well, Heir Potter-Black, it is nice to know that there is still a knowledgable and resourceful pureblood heir amongst our crowds. I was beginning to despair with the likes of some of the others.” Her lip curled derisively for the fraction of a second. Harry stored away the implications behind her words for later study.

He also didn’t mention the fact that he wasn’t actually a Pureblood. It wasn’t his intention to hide his lineage nor was he ashamed of his mother. In fact, he knew that Lily was the most brilliant witch of her year and respected her for it. But if Narcissa Malfoy thought highly enough of him to mistake him for another pureblood heir, he wasn’t going to raise any objections.

Harry _was_ the heir to the Pureblood Potter and Black families, after all. So it wasn’t as if her words were entirely wrong.

“I can already tell that you’re going to be making quite a name for yourself one day,” Narcissa continued, shoulders straightening as if her compliments equalled to bestowing him some high honour. Considering the Malfoys were notorious for their pride and high standards, it might as well have been. “Unfortunately, Draco still has to complete certain assignments with his father at the Ministry, so we will have to cut our visit short for today.”

“But Mother!” Draco whined, the perfect picture of a wronged lordling. 

“Mr. Potter has to finish acquiring his school supplies, as well,” Professor McGonagall spoke up. “So we won’t be holding you back from your duties any longer.”

Draco looked a moment away from throwing a tantrum.

“You’ve begged your Father for weeks for this chance, Draco,” Narcissa cut off his protests before the young heir could even voice them. “If you don’t make the best of this opportunity, why should your Father ever provide you with any more?”

Draco’s mouth snapped shut.

Narcissa’s eyes softened at her son’s dejected expression. “Besides, you can always reacquaint yourself with Heir Potter in a month on the Hogwarts Express.”

The words had their desired affect. Harry watched with amusement as the pout vanished near instantaneously to be replaced with a smirk. “Alright, then. Until next time, _Potter_. Professor McGonagall.”

With his confident and biting attitude back in place, it was hard to connect him with the same pitiful boy that had stood there with shoulders slumped just moments earlier.

“Malfoy,” Harry nodded. “Lady Malfoy.”

“Heir Potter-Black,” Narcissa similarly tipped her head. “Minerva.”

Professor McGonagall gave her normal tight lipped smile to the two as they departed before turning bemused eyes to Harry. “Well, Mr. Potter, I must say that I’m surprised. Mrs. Malfoy seemed quite impressed, though the young Malfoy heir…Your father was never on the best terms with Lord Malfoy either, but I had hoped you would avoid making any enemies on the first day.”

For a moment Harry was confused by her words. Once he processed them, he nearly let slip a smile. In the orphanage, he had grown up learning to read the personalities and moods of others out of necessity. Naturally, he saw through Draco’s haughty tone and exaggerated arrogance. He had been curious and amiable enough while he and Harry were alone, but Professor McGonagall wouldn’t know that. 

Thinking back to their interaction once they were outside, Harry realized that it would be all too easy for someone to mistaken their new acquaintanceship for a growing rivalry. The blonde’s sharp parting remark probably only reinforced the idea.

It was all false bravado. Harry knew that, but the professor had probably thought of it as an open challenge.

“Actually, Professor,” Harry began, not letting his amusement show. “I thought he was being rather nice.”

Professor McGonagall stared at him skeptically. 

“Can we go get my wand, now?” Harry urged, no longer wanting to continue the pointless conversation.

He still hasn’t decided yet how he felt about Draco Malfoy. Obviously, he was spoiled, arrogant, condescending, and a hopeless show off. While much better than the children at Mossdale’s Orphanage, Draco was still childish and naive. Yet at the same time, he was earnest and outspoken and so sure of his place in the world that he wasn’t at all insecure about how others viewed him. Harry already knew that these traits, coupled with his own persistence and sizeable inheritance, would one day ensure him a powerful political position in Magical Britain.

That meant that if not a friend, Draco would still be an useful ally to have.

Seeing the dusty shopfront of _Ollivander’s_ , Harry decided that he would wait until Hogwarts starts before setting his opinion of the other boy.

“There’s no need to feel nervous,” Professor McGonagall told him, taking his silence as a sign of nerves. “The process is very simple and you’ll be required to do little more than stand there and wave an arm.”

“How do I choose the right one?” Harry asked as they stepped through the creaking doors. He didn’t get a chance to read up on wand lore since he had not bought any books on the subject the first time. 

A soft chime marked their entrance. The interior of the shop was filled with long, thin boxes stacked atop each other and stuck in crooks and nannies. Harry realized that it was several times dustier in there than it even had been at the orphanage.

“The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter,” a scratchy, airy voice snapped his attention to the side of the room. “There is no _right_ wand. There is only the right _wizard_.”

Harry felt distinctively uncomfortable upon meeting the unfocused gaze of the white haired and bespectacled man before him. He looked to be middle aged, but there was something to his countenance that made Harry think that he was much, _much_ older.

“How did you know my name?” Harry was sure there were no pictures of him in the wizarding world aside from the one taken when he was still a baby, and he had also hidden his scar.

“It almost seems only yesterday when your mother was here buying her own wand,” the man, who Harry assumed was Ollivander, said dazedly. “Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Perfect for for charm work.”

Harry edged back stiffly as the man leaned in close to his face. He decided right then that he disliked the man; Harry wasn’t used to feeling so unsettled.

“I’ve heard that she was a charms prodigy,” Harry commented offhandedly in an attempt to curb his unease.

“Your father, now…his was a mahogany wand,” Ollivander continued as if Harry hadn’t spoken. “Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more powerful and excellent for Transfiguration.”

“What do I need to do?” Harry tried again, hoping to change the topic of conversation. “Take a compatibility test?”

“Ah, and that’s where…” the man kept going, raising a hand and reaching towards Harry’s forehead.

Harry, feeling more than a little annoyed, let his magic slip out and saturate the air around him. “Pardon me, _sir_. Could we get started, _please_?” He let out pulses of magic in tune with his enunciated words. He fought to keep his tone polite, although he was close to dropping the pretence entirely.

Ollivander straightened up, hand snapping back as if burnt. His misty eyes widened, resembling glassy orbs. “Oh, my…dear me…”

Harry briefly wondered if the strange wizard could sense his magic. Judging by his reaction, he probably did. Harry pulled back his magic before Professor McGonagall, who was standing several paces behind him just outside the exit of the store, could notice. 

“Well?” He asked. “What do I need to do?”

Ollivander was silent for a long moment before he shifted, walking around the counter to stand at his side. His eyes were almost clear when he spoke again, much softer this time. “Which is your wand arm?”

Harry raised a brow. “I’m ambidextrous.”

A measuring tape similar to the one Madam Malkin had, but with silver markings, unrolled and began to measure. Harry’s expression didn’t change when it lifted to check the distance between his eyes.

“Mr. Potter…” Ollivander finally spoke up once more after nearly ten minutes of working in silence. “It…it is indeed strange.”

Harry felt a spike of annoyance when the older wizard left his sentence hanging. “What is?” He asked impatiently.

Ollivander’s milky eyes flickering in remembrance. “It’s strange…You almost remind me of another youth…years ago.”

Harry hummed, no longer as annoyed at the wand maker as he had been when he had moments ago, now that they were past the idle conversation.

“I remember every wand that I’ve ever sold. Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. One of the most powerful wands I’ve created. Yes… _very_ powerful. As powerful as the wizard himself, I suppose. Had immense talent…he did,” Ollivander murmured, his eyes suddenly raising to meet Harry’s. “Not unlike yourself, Mr. Potter.”

“Thank you?” Harry wasn’t quite sure where the wizard was headed with those words. 

A sad, resigned sort of smile flitted past Ollivander’s face. “It is only fitting, after all…pardon me for reminiscing, Mr. Potter.”

“Fitting?” Harry repeated, interest piqued.

“Fate works in mysterious ways,” was all Ollivander said, smiling sharply, before turning and sweeping past the counter. Harry’s eyes followed him as he rummaged through a dangerously tall toward of wand boxes.

Finally, he returned with a faded blue box lined with silver. “Dragon heartstring, aspen,” Ollivander hummed, stroking a long finger down the sides and lifting the lid. Inside was a slightly curved wand, its wood a mix of dark and light. “ _Very_ powerful, best used for combative magic.”

Harry cautiously took the wan between the fingers of his left hand, not knowing what to expect. He almost dropped it when it gave a soft hum, almost as if in consideration.

“Well?” Ollivander asked impatiently. “Give it a wave.”

Harry obliged and felt an uncomfortable pull on his magic. The next moment, piles of parchment and books were displaced from the counter, scattered around the room by a fierce swirl of wind.

“ _Definitely_ not,” Ollivander quickly plucked the wand from Harry and set it back into its box.

The next one he handed Harry was a straight, light brown one that had a much softer appearance than the previous. Something in Ollivander’s expression told Harry that he wasn’t even expecting the wand to ‘chose’ Harry, but was instead simply curious at the results. “Applewood. Unicorn hair. Fourteen inches and very flexible. You’ll never find another wand which produces more powerful healing magics.”

Harry didn’t like the sharp glint in the man’s eyes as he reached for the wand. Therefore, once he held it in his hands, he purposefully ignored the near painful prickling sensation in his palm and kept his expression neutral. Ollivander, on the other hand, seemed a mix of disappointed and relieved that nothing exception happened.

Same as he did with the previous wand, Harry waved it. However, this time there was no pull on his magic. He had to consciously feed it through the wand instead.

A sharp crack reverberated throughout the room and made both he and Ollivander jump. At the same time, a horrible pain shot up through his arm. Harry let the wand clatter to the counter, hissing as he saw the raw scorch mark he had running down his hand.

Ollivander’s attention was drawn to the dropped wand. He picked it up gingerly, hands trembling as he regarded the thin, long crack that ran down its handle and reached almost half way to the tip.

“What was _that_?” Harry asked through gritted teeth. Ever since he came to be able to control his magic all those years ago, even the brasher bullies hadn’t been able to hurt him enough to leave a visible mark. The worst he got were bruises that faded within minutes, probably thanks to his magic.

The wand maker was paying him no mind. His fingers were nimbly dancing over the cracked length of wood, muttering under his breath. At one point he held it up to the light and squinted with one eye in the minuscule crack.

“The unicorn hair’s been fried…hmm. Magical strain, I’d reckon,” he muttered under his breath. “It’ll have to be replaced. Hadn’t done much good for the wood, either. Doesn’t seem like something an easy _reparo_ will fix.”

“How can the core be _fried_?” Harry asked incredulously. “Aren’t wands _supposed_ to channel magic?”

Ollivander side-eyed him, answering his question directly for the first time during their entire meeting. “Ah, Mr. Potter, wandlore is a complicated art that no one fully comprehends. Yes, wands are made to direct the innate magic of witches and wizards. However, it is not an ‘one fit all’ scenario. Think of the wand as ice, and a compatible wizard’s magic as water. The wand serves to stabilize and enhance the wizard’s magic, _cool it_ , if we follow the analogy.”

Harry nodded along, trying to ignore the irritating itch of foreign magic along the burn on his hand.

“Now, think of your magic as the strongest fire.” At the wizard’s words, Harry paused, his eyes lighting up in understanding. “When your magic mixed with the wands, the end result was a dangerous backlash that was mutually destructive. Evidently, your magic won out in the end, and so the wand took the worst of the damage.”

“I’m sorry about the wand,” Harry offered. He wasn’t really. He was more annoyed at the fact that Ollivander used him as an _experiment_ even when knowing how dangerous it could be.

“I’m afraid the blame lies on my shoulders,” the older wizard sighed, the misty look returning to his eyes. “Forgive an old man for his satiating his curiosity.”

“And what did you find?” Harry asked.

Ollivander tilted his head, a far away expression passing over his face, as if thinking of some distant memory. “That, perhaps, there is only _one_ wand that you are destined for, Mr. Potter.”

Harry waited in silence while Ollivander disappeared into the back of the shop. It took much longer this time, and when he returned, it was with a nondescript box covered in a thick layer of dust. He set it on the table and slowly removed the lid. The look he cast towards the straight rod of reddish brown wood was almost reverent.

Without further delay, Harry grasped the handle of the wand with his uninjured hand and drew it upwards in an arc. Instantly, a pleasant surge of warmth filled his veins. His magic nearly hummed with satisfaction as it spun around him. Harry pushed his magic through the wand with much more ease this time, and as he did, an endless list of possibilities opened up before him.

He could levitate every wand box in the shop, and leave the unsettling wand maker to clean up the mess. He could raise an even stronger gust than he had with the first wand. Heck, he was sure that if he put his mind to it, he could even conjure up flames to swirl around him and match Ollivander’s analogies about his magic. While those were all tempting or amusing thoughts, Harry didn’t want to expose too much of what he was capable of yet. Not with a Hogwarts professor watching him right outside the doors.

So he settled for the same light trick he had done for Dumbledore. 

However, he seemed to have far underestimated the effect of his new wand on his magic.

Rather than a few faintly flickering orbs of light, it was as if a dozen miniature suns had sprung up into existence around him. The entirety of _Ollivander’s_ was cast in a pale white glow. In fact, Harry was certain that the brightness was quite eye-catching even from the outside.

“Goodness,” Ollivander breathed.

Harry quickly dropped the spell, mentally cursing the unexpected display. At least he hadn’t gone for the flame route. He could only imagine how badly _that_ would have turned out.

“Phoenix feather, holly. A most unusual combination. Eleven inches,” Ollivander whispered, pushing the box across to Harry. “How _curious_. How very curious…”

Harry watched in recognition as his eyes took on a familiar mix of awe and sadness. “Is it him again? The boy that I reminded you of?”

Ollivander’s unfocused eyes snapped back to him. “It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather resides in your wand gave another feather-just one other. Brother wands…yes…how _very_ fascinating.”

“What’s his name?” Harry wondered, becoming increasingly interested in this mystery boy. If they were really as alike as Ollivander made them out to be, Harry felt that it would be worth knowing.

For a moment Ollivander seemed uncertain. But when he met Harry’s unyielding gaze, his shoulders slumped slightly. “Tom. His name was Tom. _Tom Marvolo Riddle_.”

Harry softly murmured the name beneath his breath, thoughtful.

“I think we are to expect great things from you, Mr. Potter,” Ollivander said. Harry looked up expressionlessly. “After all, _he_ too did great things. Terrible, yes…but great…”

Harry was about to ask what exactly these _terrible things_ were, but Ollivander spoke again before he had the chance.

“That’ll be seven galleons.”

Once it became apparent that the airily absentminded wizard wasn’t going to be saying a word more on the subject, Harry paid and left the store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 is done. Next time, Harry once again comes across the name 'Tom Riddle'. He sets to find out who exactly 'Riddle' is while waiting for the time to pass for the day he heads off for Hogwarts…


	4. Tom Marvolo Riddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry makes another discovery.
> 
> Finally, the stage is set and the day has come for Harry to head off for Hogwarts. On the train, Harry finds himself forming unexpected alliances and beginning to gather the first of his following...

Professor McGonagall had regarded him strangely when he came out, but didn’t press the matter of his surprising show of magic. They then proceeded to visit the rest of the shops around Diagon Alley and purchase whatever supplies were listed on his letter. When lunchtime came around, she insistently treated him to a much fancier meal at a small scale restaurant ran by French witches than the one he had the previous week at the _Leaky Cauldron_.

Afterwards, to Harry’s surprise, she took out a wrapped package from an expendable pouch and handed it to him. It was a long and slender box that was even taller than him.

“Happy eleventh birthday, Mr. Potter,” she smiled.

Harry striped off the wrapping paper and was left with a black, expensive seeming case balanced over his leg. He lifted the lid and a polished and varnished length of black wood that ended in what appeared to be slicked down faux-fur. At the top of the long handle were small, golden letters that read _Nimbus 2000_. It was a broomstick.

“Thank you,” Harry said sincerely to the professor. He had already learned about Quidditch from the book he bought on Wizarding traditions. Additionally, he recalled the wonderful sensation of having the world spread out beneath him from his childhood memory. Thinking to that point, he looked up.

“Professor, did my father play Quidditch?”

Professor McGonagall started at the unexpected question before smiling fondly. “Why, yes he did, Mr. Potter. He was the most talented Chaser the Gryffindor team had seen in many years. The other house hardly stood a chance during his Hogwarts years.”

Harry nodded in understanding, running a hand down the smooth handle of his broom. He knew he probably wouldn’t be joining the school team-he wasn’t willing to commit large portions of his time for practice sessions when it could be spent on more important things, such as learning as much as he can from Hogwart’s legendary library, or even exploring the castle.

He was more than interested in the so-called Come and Go Room, as well as the mythical Chamber of Secrets. But since the latter was said to have been opened a few decades ago, it wasn’t so much a myth as it was well hidden. Considering Harry could speak Parseltongue, which was thought to be a talent unique to Salazar Slytherin, Harry thought that he probably would have a much easier time locating the chamber. But strangely enough, he hasn’t found anything on the Potter Family Tree to indicate that he was even loosely tied to Slytherin…

Pushing the stray line of thought from his mind, Harry thanked Professor McGonagall again for her gift. He did enjoy flying, or at least he enjoyed the _memory_ of flying. If not for Quidditch, Harry could still fly recreationally. With some concealing charms, it could probably be used as a convenient method of transportation.

After lunch, Harry said his goodbyes to the professor. He had told her that the matron of the orphanage would be picking him up right outside the _Leaky Cauldron_ in Muggle London. While it took some time to convince her that he’d be safe without supervision for a few minutes, Professor McGonagall eventually relented and gave him the instructions for getting on Platform 9 and 3/4 before leaving. 

With the early afternoon hours came a new wave of excited shoppers, most of whom were children accompanied by their parents to finish some last minute school shopping. Harry had already placed all of his newly acquired stationary and tools in his trunk, which was shrunk and placed back into his bag. Therefore, he had little difficulty moving through the crowd of witches and wizards carrying bags from various shops.

Harry hadn’t truly planned to return to the orphanage. Why would he, when the Matron was only too willing to be rid of him for the school year and there was only a month left until Hogwarts opened?

He darted into one of the narrower alleyways, a destination already forming in his mind.

The book he had bought did not do Knockturn Alley much justice. It had only mentioned that it was a place where less reputable goods were sold, some of which not quite legal and by Dark sources.

As the rambunctious clamour from Diagon Alley fell further and further behind him, Harry pulled up the hood of his cloak and stared around in open wonder.

The air felt much cooler there while the streets were less maintained and was covered in a layer of suspicious, dark dust. The path that Harry was currently strolling along curved and wounded around dark corners and up and down crumbling steps. Actual shops were scattered, the distance between each much further than the closely built structures in Diagon Alley. Instead, there were street side stalls and thickly covered figures wheeling carts while shouting out prices.

Harry strode forward purposefully. Something about the way he held himself must have convinced others that he did not wish to be bothered since none of the roadside merchants or storekeepers tried to intercept him or advertise their goods when he neared.

Only when he saw a flash of familiar blonde hair did he pause in his steps.

Harry watched as Narcissa Malfoy, clutching a wrapped parcel, slip quickly out the doors of a dingy seeming pawn shop with the words _Borgin & Burkes_ displayed across its grimy storefront. Harry supposed what she said about Draco having duties to finish were true, as the blonde was no longer following behind her. She glanced around, chin lifted proudly. When she failed to see anyone she recognized, her wand flicked and she disappeared with a soft but sharp crack. 

His interest piqued, Harry made for the shop in question. He barely batted an eye at the unwashed, tainted steps leading up to the entrance and the numerous _shrunken heads_ -which appeared to be _human_ -hanging from the display case. The doors groaned loudly at his entrance.

The interior of the store was dimly lit, if at all. Harry had to pause to let his eyes readjust to the dark room before carefully making his way around, inspecting the various trinkets and devices set upon the shelves. There was no one at the counter, and for the owner to be so comfortably absent, Harry guessed that there must have been countless curses and hexes set in place to prevent any attempt of robbery.

Within moments, Harry’s attention was drawn to where several shelves stood filled with books. Making his way over, Harry thought of all the topics he had been interested in reading about. He had to squint to see the faded titles, but these aged and dusty tomes seemed much more promising than the strictly regulated books that _Flourish & Blotts_ carried.

Harry began to slide out certain books he found intriguing, levitating them behind him as he went. He slid his wand out into his hands so it was visible to anyone who might see him, even though he didn’t actually use it for that simple act of magic. Still, he wanted to avoid drawing attention to himself through his talent in windless magic, for now.

He was so absorbed in his task that his foot caught on a sizeable pile of old binders when he turned the corner. Only years of honed instinct prevented him from tumbling over along with the stack he tripped on. 

Carefully setting his books on the ground, Harry bent down to pick up a thick folder that now laid open at his feet. The parchment within were stained brown with age, and he distantly noted that it must have been decades old before his eyes were drawn to the lines of elegant, flowing letters that filled the page.

Suddenly, Harry realized that these weren’t goods, at all. Rather, they were the store’s sales records, and from the late 1940s, if the date at the top were anything to go by.

That was over fifty years in the past.

The entirety of the binder was filled with charts and logs describing the time of each sale made, the value of the object sold, and the profit the store made. At the very left were the names and signatures of the one who had made these sales. Harry initially planned to swiftly return the volumes to their original place before the store owner caught him looking through something he shouldn’t, but a name caught his attention before he can.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle_.

It was the second time the name had popped up that day, and Harry had never been a believer of coincidences. There must have been something unique about this _Tom Riddle_ for him to first be mentioned in a comparison to Harry, and then for his name to again turn up in the corners of a shabby, prominently Dark store in the middle of Knockturn Alley.

Harry’s hand paused mid-flip, and he read the page more carefully. It seemed that the elegant handwriting was _Tom_ ’s, and he had been a shop assistant at _Borgin & Burkes_ back in 1945. He must have been an excellent salesman, for nearly every recorded sale within that year had his signature sitting smugly beside it.

_A vial of Felix Felicis_ , Harry read from the long list, _goblin-made dagger, cursed bracelet, A Guide To The Darkest Arts, half-ounce of Basilisk venom_ -

Harry did a double take as he flipped several pages back. _The Locket of Salazar Slytherin_.

The locket of Salazar Slytherin? Harry’s eyes widened when he saw the price that it had originally been bought by the shop for. A mere 10 galleons for a priceless Founder’s artifact? Its original owner must have been either ignorant, desperate, or both. Harry leaned towards the latter. He saw the price that it had been sold at to one _Hepzibah Smith_. It had been a sale made before Tom Riddle started working there, since the names on the log now mostly read _Caractacus Burke_ and were written in a messy, barely legible script.

Harry quickly closed the binder and reordered the pile that he had displaced. He gazed around with more seriousness than he had before. If Salazar Slytherin’s locket could be discovered hidden in this small antique’s shop, there was no knowing what other misplaced treasure might be tucked away alongside the other assortments of goods.

He made his way slowly to the back of the store, looking at everything and touching nothing. His experience at _Ollivander’s_ had already taught him enough about the dangers of magic-infused objects. Who knew what sort of nasty curses might have been placed on the seemingly innocuous objects that lined the store’s shelves.

It was in a corner near the farthest wall where he stopped his slow trek.

Before him stood what almost appeared to be a rounded, obsidian bird bath, except for there were no fountains. Instead, the entirety of the wide rimmed bowl at the top was filled to the brim with a thick, silvery fluid.

Harry had a guess as to what it was, and he found himself proven correct when he neared and saw the tag lying on a table at its side.

_Pensieve, 17th Century. Price negotiable_.

Beside the tag was a moderately sized case that held multiple identical vials of some whitish substance. Harry knew that they were stored memories.

He cautiously reached out with his magic and, upon feeling no foreign resistance from the case, reached out a hand and took one of the vials carefully in his hands.

_Slug Club Christmas Party, Hogwarts, 1931_ , denoted a slip of parchment handing from its cork.

Harry went through a few others, which were labelled as either sorting ceremonies from various years, Hogwarts Quidditch matches, magical duels, celebrity encounters at obscure bars or diners, interesting interviews, news reports, or eavesdropped conversations. The vials were organized into rows of twelve, and Harry counted more than six dozen of them in total.

Suddenly remembering what he read, Harry rummaged through the case until his hand eventually stilled. He held the vial up in silent victory, inspecting it in the soft white glow of the nearby pensieve. 

_The Chamber of Secrets, First Petrification Victim Found, Hogwarts, 1942_. Harry’s smile grew until it was almost all teeth. 

Indeed, _Borgin & Burkes_ was a hidden treasure hoard, if one really took the time to search.

Another vial beside it read _The Capture of the ‘Heir’, Hogwarts, 1943_.

“Whatcha doing, boy? Where're your parents?” A harsh growl sounded from behind Harry.

Casually, Harry slipped the two vials back beneath the rest, turning and glancing expressionlessly at a grouchy looking man limping down the stairs.

“Who are you?” Harry asked instead.

“The name’s Borgin, and it’s you I should be askin’ the question to, boy,” the wizard narrowed his eyes. He suddenly paused when he took in Harry’s apparel. Harry casually slid his wand back in his sleeves to his wrist holster and held himself straighter. He was the heir to two Ancient and Noble Pureblood houses and numerous smaller, less significant ones. As the owner of such a store, Borgin was most likely well versed in client confidentiality and had a businessman mentality. Dressed in robes that could match Malfoy’s in quality, Harry knew that Borgin won’t take his words lightly.

“Then all you need to know is that I’m a customer at your shop,” Harry drawled, turning his eyes to the pensieve and the case of memories. “How much for these?”

 

 

* * *

 

Almost an hour later, Harry reemerged from the shadowy side streets of Diagon Alley and found himself once more surrounded by the jovial atmosphere of a number of energetic first years practically vibrating in excitement as the time of Hogwarts neared.

He was over a thousand galleons short, but he knew that pensieves were rare to find and the memories that came along with it were priceless, at least to him. He also cleared away practically a fifth of all the books that _Borgin & Burkes_ held, and the only reason he hadn’t taken more was that he knew that he wouldn’t be able to understand the more complicated subjects until after a few years at school. The books had been much more expensive than the ones at _Flourish & Blotts_, but considering that most of them were either illegal, ages old, or long since out of print, Harry considered himself to have gotten quite a bargain.

After leaving _Borgin & Burkes_ Harry had only spent a short amount of time circling around Knockturn Alley before deciding to make his way back and leave for the day. He already acquired enough things to occupy himself with for the remainder of the summer, anyways. There were just over five weeks before he had to leave for Hogwarts, and he doubt he’d be able to finish even half of the books he bought within that amount of time.

So, Harry walked along Diagon Alley until he stood along a wide stretch of road that was less crowded due to it mainly having an assortment of restaurants and bars and less shops. He held out his wand directly before him and steadied himself as a sudden burst of wind threatened to throw him off his feet.

A towering purple bus materialized before him, coming to a screeching stop. Harry tucked his wand back in his sleeves and stared appraisingly at the three levelled Knight Bus. He stepped backward just in time as the door swung open right where he had stood.

“Why, hello there!” A cheerful voice sounded from the driver’s seat. “I’m Ernie Prang, at your service. Where to today?”

Harry stepped up onto the bus and gave the driver, who was clad in the same bright purple as the bus, a nod. “I’m-”

“Aren’t ya gonna introduce me, Ernie!?” A heavily accented voice cut him off. Harry turned at stared at the shrunken head that was not unlike the ones he’d seen at _Borgin & Burkes_. It hung from the rearview mirror of the bus and was currently cackling loudly. 

“Dre Head can get a little crazy around strangers,” Ernie turned back to Harry apologetically. 

Harry ignored the head’s continued protests. “Can you take me to Grimmauld Place, please?”

“Grimmauld Place, he says,” Dre Head exclaimed loudly. “Ya heard that, Ernie?”

“Alright,” Ernie flashed him a smile. “Sit back and hold tight. We’ll be there in just a minute!”

Harry paid his fare beforehand and sat at the very back of the bus.

He remembered seeing _12 Grimmauld Place_ as the location of the Black ancestral home back in Gringotts. It was supposedly Unplottable and buried under more secrecy charms and protective spells than even the Malfoy Manor. Not to mention it was also under the Fidelius Charm, which meant that with the rest of the Black family put away in Azkaban, Harry was the only one that knew its exact location. He had thought carefully for the entire time while he had been at Diagon Alley, and he eventually decided that there was no safer place for him to spend the last month of his summer before school came to a start.

Also, seeing as he was the heir to the House of Black, he should have little trouble bypassing the wards and any curses meant to obstruct outsiders most likely won’t affect him either.

Harry watched the world quite literally flew past as the Knight Bus zipped down along the streets of Muggle London. He tuned out the shrunken head’s occasional yells or badly timed jokes, instead leaning back in his seat and focusing on not toppling to the floor from one of the bus’s sharp turns.

After what felt like mere moments and half a dozen other stops, the bus lurched forward skidded right onto the curb of a muggle neighbourhood.

“Grimmauld Place, here we are!” Ernie announced loudly.

“Have a good night! Get it? ‘Knight’? AHAHAHAHAHA!” Dre Head swung from his perch as Harry descended the steps. The moment both his feet touched the ground, he felt a surge of gust behind him and when he turned, the bus was already long gone.

It took another few minutes of walking and navigating through the quiet streets before Harry found himself standing before the two buildings labelled No.11 and No.13.

Harry concentrated, closing his eyes. He reached forward with his magic and, in response, the ancient and heavy magics that the Black family home was saturated with crawled forth and submerged him. For a moment, it was almost overwhelming.

Then, as it recognized him as the next in line to be the family head, the magic gave off a warm hum and retracted. Harry gradually opened his eyes again and now saw, in between No 11 and No 13, the age-stained walls of No 12, Grimmauld Place. This was home to one of, if not the most, powerful Pureblood families in existence. This was home to his Godfather, and it was about to become his for the next month.

Mentally preparing himself for the no doubt busy days ahead, Harry strolled forward and ascended the granite stairs of his new house.

When the time for Hogwarts comes, he would be prepared. Reaching his hand forward, Harry grasped the knocker and pushed.

 

 

* * *

 

On September the first, Harry woke in the late morning, rubbing the soreness from his arm, where he had laid his head when he’d fallen asleep at his desk. The last month had been a blur of flipping through the books he bought from _Borgin & Burkes_ and sleeping at scattered intervals during the day. He hasn't had a chance yet to look at the memories in the pensieve that he bought, but he knew that there would be more than enough time once he arrives at Hogwarts.

Harry had wanted to be ready by the time he was to leave for Hogwarts. He knew he had a lot of catching up to do as opposed to some of the other children who had been raised in the magical world.

Especially considering the houses that he was most likely to be sorted into. Harry knew his chances of ending up in Gryffindor were minimal at best. While he was far from a coward, in the end, Harry still prioritized his own safety. He would rather lie in waiting until he was strong enough before fighting back than charge in recklessly and risk his life.

As for Hufflepuff, Harry thought that while the likelihood still wasn’t high, it still had a greater possibility than Gryffindor. He was patient and hardworking and when he set his mind to do something, he would put in the best of his efforts. But Harry knew that he lacked the famed Hufflepuff loyalty and honesty. It wasn’t that he _couldn’t_ be loyal, rather, he hadn’t anything to be loyal to. All his life he has had to look after himself simply because there was no one else who would. Therefore, his only loyalty was to himself, and he doubt that would impress the sorting hat enough to place him in Hufflepuff. 

Harry didn’t mind being sorted into either Ravenclaw or Slytherin, and he knew he had a close enough chance at both. But he did know that the two houses were the least tolerant of ignorance, so he had spent his last month at No. 12 Grimmaud place learning all he was able to from the books he had bought.

At the moment he was sat at the dining table, finishing up the breakfast the Black House-elf, Kreacher, had prepared for him. Over the last few weeks, he and Kreacher had formed a tentative friendship.

While he wasn’t a Black nor was he a pureblood, the fact remained that he had Black blood running through his veins. He was also willing to learn the older traditions of the House of Black and did not show any prejudiced judgement towards some of their more questionable practices. This made Kreacher, who had been hesitant and irritated at first, much more willing to accept him as the appointed Black heir.

After finishing with his meal and packing the last of his book and notes into his trunk, Harry had Kreacher Apparate them to King’s Cross Station. He was already dressed in his plain black Hogwarts robes since he could no longer stand the sight of his tattered orphanage clothes that reminded him so much of what he used to be just a month prior. _An insignificant nobody_. 

But that no longer mattered.

He was Harry James Potter, Parselmouth and prodigy at wandless magic, amongst his other more unsavoury titles. He already had a gleaming reputation that he didn’t even have to work for and vaults with more gold than he could ever hope to spend. The Wizarding World had practically been handed over to him on a silver platter.

He smiled as he strolled down the platform, blending in with the steadily growing crowd of witches and wizards seeing their children off to Hogwarts. One of the things he has learned over the years was how to draw attention when he needed it and how to fade into the background when he didn’t. At that moment, he couldn’t be more thankful for that. He could almost imagine the maelstrom that would break loose should it be known that the Boy Who Lived was currently on Platform 9 and 3/4.

Near the back of the train, he hoisted himself up through the doors and hauled his trunk in behind him. The lighting within the Hogwarts Express was much dimmer than the morning light outside. Harry had to wait for his eyes to adjust before setting off again, glancing in through the slitted windows on the compartment doors. Most of them were already occupied, and he could hear snippets of muted conversation as he passed by. 

Finally, he came across one that was empty. Shrinking his trunk so that it would fit more easily into the racks, Harry put away his belongings and settled down into the seats. In his hands, he held one of his newer purchases, a thin volume that contained grey magic that bordered on the dark. He stared down at its unassuming black cover and let his mind drift. 

The moment of silence that followed was pure bliss, as the reality of the situation finally caught up with him.

He was going to _Hogwarts_ and he was going to learn _magic_.

The fabric of his robes was cool against his skin, the gentle thrum of outside activity was music to his ears, and the soft light filtering through the windows cast the compartment in an ethereal glow. At that moment, Harry was completely and utterly _content_.

Somehow, he just knew that he was going home.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have long to dwell on the thought before the compartment doors were rudely flung open.

Harry’s eye twitched. It took more effort than it should to curb his instinctual reflex of blasting the intruder into the walls. He felt his magic roil unpleasantly before reluctantly settling. It was enough to destroy all traces of the unadulterated joy he had been feeling just minutes before.

However, the redhead that had just barged inside didn’t seem to catch on to his displeasure.

“Hiya,” the other boy waved awkwardly. “Do you mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full.”

Harry glanced at him briefly out of the corner of his eyes, then shrugged. The red-haired wizard took that for acquiescence and plopped clumsily into the seats across from Harry. “I’m Ron Weasley.” He offered.

Harry straightened up slightly, feeling a tinge of annoyance. He wasn’t particularly in the mood for small talk.

Ron Weasley was a pudgy, freckled boy clad in rumpled hand-me-downs. His hair was so bright a red that Harry almost adverted his eyes and his expression was a mix of awkward embarrassment and uncertainty.

Finally, Harry let out a quiet sigh. “The name’s Potter. Harry Potter.”

Seeing as he had an image to maintain, and as Ron was the first to speak to him on the train, Harry decided that he could spare a few moments indulging the other boy. He considered adding on his titles, but since the other Pureblood-Harry knew that the Weasleys were a part of the Sacred 28-hasn’t bothered to do so, he wouldn’t, either. After all, Purebloods usually only attached their titles to their introductions to other Purebloods of equal standing.

“ _Harry Potter_!?” 

Harry winced. That squeal had been inhumanely high. Ron was gaping back at him, reverence and envy displayed openly across his face. “Harry Potter?” He repeated, as if the name was a mantra of sorts. “You’re Harry Potter? The Boy Who Lived?”

“I am,” Harry said dryly.

The next second was passed in breathless anticipation. Or, in Harry’s case, growing exasperation.

“Do you have the…” Ron finally recovered enough to whisper. He gestured vaguely with his hands. “The…you know. _The scar_.”

Harry raised an unimpressed brow. He wondered why it was that the magicals made such a big deal of the remnant of injury he had gotten on the night he supposedly defeated the Dark Lord. No one even knew what had happened, yet everyone seemed content to continue to worship him as their ‘saviour’. 

Faced with Ron’s wide, expectant eyes, Harry bit back a scoff. Instead, he tilted his head slightly to the side so that his fringe parted to either side of his head. Ron’s sharp intake of breath followed immediate.

“That _wicked_ ,” the boy huffed, leaning forward in his seat.

Harry leaned back so that his unruly hair once again covered his forehead. The red head’s gaze of disappointed loss brought a vicious tinge of amusement to him. 

“Not really?” He mused. “I don’t remember anything from that night. It’s not that important.”

“Not that important!?” Ron nearly screeched. Harry felt the telltale signs of a small migraine beginning to emerge from the loud noise. “What do you mean it’s not that important? You defeated You-Know-Who! You saved _the world_!”

Harry took in the sight of the Weasley’s red face, disbelieving stare, and trembling hands, and felt a sharp spike of ire. How could the other children all so blindly believe in something that was so obviously false? Harry was no hero. He had been a child caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, who had made it out alive by some miracle.

And now, he was suddenly thrust into a world where everyone expected him to own up to his supposed acts of heroism, as if it even _mattered_ what he did as a one year old baby.

Before his thoughts could spiral any further, the compartment doors slid open once more. This time it revealed the angular face of one Draco Malfoy, chin raised in all his haughty glory.

“Potter!” He snapped. “I’ve been looking _everywhere_ for you.”

Ron scoffed, attitude doing a compete one-eighty. Draco’s steely grey eyes narrowed at the sound and the blonde turned, sneer turning more venomous.

“ _Weasley_. Hoping to have some of Potter’s wealth and fame rub off on you, eh?”

Ron blushed a furious red and, for a moment, it seemed as if he was going to punch the Malfoy heir right then and there. “What do you mean by that, you slimy git? If anyone’s after Harry’s, it’d be _you_.”

Draco strode forward, expression fouling. “How _dare_ you. You’re a mere blood traitor whose family couldn’t even afford proper _wands_ for their children.” His eyes darted mockingly down at Ron’s obviously second-hand wand. Ron’s face was almost the same shade as his hair by that point. “And you’re making digs about _me_?”

As entertaining as it was to watch the two boys to go at each other’s throats, Harry wasn’t in the mood for being caught in the middle of a childish _squabble_. He slipped through the doors while neither were paying him attention, leaving his trunk back in the compartment. It would get sent to the dorms later, anyway. For the moment, he just wanted to distance himself from the other two.

Draco was an interesting enough conversationalist on his own, but he also happened to be a naive and spoiled brat. When provoked, he was just like any other eleven year old boy. Harry pushed back his disappointment as he slipped down the corridor.

If the young Malfoy wanted to befriend him, he would have to act more of the part of the noble Pureblood heir that he has been groomed to be. Harry has already tolerated his fair share of obnoxious children back at the orphanage. In all honesty, he would prefer being alone to putting up with any more.

But before he was able to distance himself from his prior compartment, he was suddenly being grabbed by the arm and pulled into another. 

The unexpected turn of events, combined with the sudden onslaught of words he was faced with, shocked him so thoroughly that he didn’t even have time to retaliate with his magic, consciously or subconsciously. 

In fact, his book would have clattered to the ground had he not exerted a forceful burst of wandless magic, freezing it in mid air mere centimetres from the ground. He let out a disgruntled puff of breath, bending down to retrieve it.

“What do we have here, Forge?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Greg. Look like a lost little lion to me.”

Harry bristled at the insinuation of his house placement, before his anger quickly morphed to irritation at the terrible sight before him.

Now, instead of one red head, there were _two_. To make things worse, they were identical, and vaguely resembled the other Weasley that Harry had just abandoned moments earlier. It was obvious that these two were older, however, though the same couldn’t be said for their maturity.

Harry gingerly checked his book for any damage, and finding none, he tugged his arm out from their grip and levelled them with an icy glare. “Don’t assume what you don’t know. Now, if you will excuse me, I still have to find myself another compartment to pass the next few hours, since your brother has so graciously invaded _mine_.”

Normally he was more discreet and quieter in his anger, but it seemed that being constantly hounded by _children_ was beginning to grate on his patience.

The red head twins faltered for a moment, surprise clearly shown in the simultaneous widening of their eyes and slacking of their jaws. Harry dully noted that they would’ve done amazing in theatre.

“Hey, Greg,” One of the Weasleys suddenly smiled broadly, eyes twinkling with joyous mischief. “I think we’ve found ourselves a feisty one.”

Before the other could reply, Harry pushed past them and reached for the doors. “If that’s all, I’ll be… _leaving_.”

“Wait!” A hand reached over his head and slammed the door closed.

Harry’s eye twitched in irritation. He was short, even for an eleven year old, and the sheer difference in height between him and the twins only further prodded at that sore spot for him.

“Let’s properly introduce ourselves,” the one who closed the door stepped back and decided.

“I’m Fred Weasley.”

“I’m George Weasley.”

“And together, we’re the Prankster Twins of Hogwarts!” The two finished off together, hands sweeping out in a dramatic flourish.

“…Right,” Harry raised a brow, looking back at them expectantly. “I’m Harry Potter.”

To their credit, neither twin so much as blinked at the mention of his name. Instead, they exchanged a quick and razor sharp smile before flopping back onto one side of the seats.

“Well, Harry,” Fred begin cheerfully, “Why don’t you sit with us?”

Harry tilted his head, his expression not showing even a hint of the incredulousness he felt. He wasn’t sure what he expected from the twins, but it certainly hadn’t been an invitation to share a compartment. 

“We have to somehow apologize for the trouble our little Ronniekins gave you,” George continued, sounding and looking entirely unapologetic. “So? How does sitting with the big boys sound?”

Harry was seconds away from outright rejecting the idea when a thought gave him pause. Fred and George _were_ third-year students, regardless of their lack of decorum. That meant they would have access to third-year resources and may know much more about the castle than Harry. 

So, instead of wandlessly hexing the two and leaving the compartment like he wanted so much to do, he threw the Gryffindors a bemused look. “And what exactly will the… _big boys_ …be doing?”

Fred and George shared a devious smirk. Fred reached into his robes and pulled out a worn out notebook.

“I was thinking we could get some Charms practice in before the school year starts,” he said, tone suggesting that whatever he had in mind had nothing to do with the actual class. He held out the book and it took Harry a moment to realize that he was meant to take it.

Quietly, he flipped open the leather book and leafed through the pages. At some point, however, his eyes widened slightly. He looked up, honing in to the slight strain in the Weasleys’ faces. They knew they were taking a risk, and rightfully so.

“These are practically derivatives of dark curses,” Harry muttered to himself, turning his attention back to the small book he held. 

“Prank magic,” George corrected, shifting from one foot to the other. “Technically, they’re not illegal.”

“Prank magic,” Harry repeated disbelievingly. He took a much more thorough read of a select few pages in the book and noted with fascination that George was right. While the concepts behind several of the suggested mechanisms were based off of darker ranged magic, there wasn’t anything specific enough to be deemed entirely as _dark_. “This is absolutely-”

The twins tensed.

“Brilliant,” he finally declared, snapping the book closed with a thud.

Fred and George barely sagged in relief before they were fist bumping each other, smug smiles back in place and radiating satisfaction.

“So why did you decide to show me this?” Harry asked, sitting down in the empty seats. He figured that he would be staying for quite a while, and it would be much better to be comfortable while doing so. Fred and George quickly followed suit and sat opposite of him.

The twins looked at each other, as if mentally communicating who would be the one to explain.

Harry waited patiently. He was curious. After all, the twins were in their third years, so even if they required assistance on their ‘prank magics’, they would’ve have asked a first year. Moreover, Harry’s status as the Boy Who Lived and Symbol of the Light should have only further deterred them from showing him anything that was even remotely dark in nature. Yet, they had chosen to confide in him.

“Well,” George finally said, “We have a few, namely one, reliable source who claimed to have witnessed your wand ceremony in Diagon Alley.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “A reliable acquaintance?” He asked.

“Lee Jordan,” Fred answered quickly. “Don’t worry about him. He’s very discreet, and he only told us because he knew we were searching for someone to help us.”

“And of course, we also just had the chance to see your display of wandless magic,” George continued.

Harry nodded along. 

He had been so surprised earlier that his usage of wandless magic hadn’t even registered in his mind. It was something that he’s casually done for so long, and only recently learned to actually be of high importance.

“When you became annoyed at us hinting that you are set for Gryffindor, we thought that perhaps there was much more to you than the books made out,” Fred grinned. “And we are right. So, what do you say? Have we convinced you enough to stick around a while longer?”

There wasn’t that much to consider. Harry could either leave and wander meaninglessly for the entirety of the day, and risk gaining even more attention because of his name. Or he could stay there with Fred and George, two _third years_ who were obviously flexible when it came to dark or light magics, and learn more about complex spells and concepts. The answer was clear.

"Need you ask?" Harry smiled. He opened the volume he had been reading and slid it across the table to the twins. “This may help.”

The widening of their eyes as they scanned the book only widened his smirk.

 

 

* * *

 

“So that’s why your alteration of this spell is unstable,” Harry finished, setting aside his quill while the twins leaned forward, studying his simplified runes circle.

“Oh,” they exhaled simultaneously after a long minute.

“That’s rather ingenious,” Fred commented, plucking the paper from the table and examining it closely.

“You know, Harry,” George started, peering over his brother’s shoulder at the drawing. “I never took you for one to be interested in the Dark Arts.”

“The term ‘dark arts’ is highly inaccurate and misleading at best,” Harry shrugged nonchalantly. “What I am interested in is magic. And if the Ministry is going to be classifying every powerful or interesting branch as Dark Magic, then so be it. I might as well go Dark.”

A beat passed in complete silence.

Then Fred and George both broke into applause, wearing identical expressions of admiration. “Bravo!”

“Well said!”

Harry huffed at the Weasleys’ antics, but couldn’t help the slow smile that formed on his face. While their dissatisfaction with the Ministry’s regulation of magic wasn’t nearly as intense as his, Fred and George shared in his opinion that there was simply no justification for banning any branch of magic. That was more than he had dared to hope for from wizards hailing from a prominently Light family, and it was enough for him to work with.

The only thing that was holding them back from dabbling in darker magic was their upbringing and ignorance of what the Dark side actually stood for. Harry was almost certain that once they knew the true extent the Ministry went to suppress certain magical arts, they would lose faith in the Light side altogether.

Furthermore, the twins were also inventive and admirably unconventional in addition to having relatively powerful magic. On the more practical side, they seemed to catch wind of every rumour before they even begin to spread. Harry knew that it would definitely be a boon to have the two on his side.

“If you want,” he spoke up, instantly garnering the two red heads’ attention. “You can bring the finished product to me after you’ve revised it. Or if there are any further theories you are interested in exploring, I’d be happy to listen and provide tips.”

Fred and George looked at each other and Harry could tell that they knew exactly what he was offering-an alliance. As he had expected, it didn’t take either of them long to decide and they turned, wolfish grins splitting their face.

“It’s a promise,” they said. Fred stood forward and offered his hand. “All for the sake of furthering magic, of course,” he said jokingly.

“All for the sake of magic,” Harry agreed much more seriously, taking the proffered hand and giving a firm shake.

It was then that the announcement sounded, informing the students that they were nearing Hogwarts. For the next few minutes, Fred and George chattered on cheerily about their plans for once classes officially started. Harry looked out the window, thoughts turning to the scenes of the brilliant castle he had seen on the pages of textbooks, and wondered how his own years at the school of magic would unfold.

Silently, he decided that whatever happens, he would still make the best of it.

After all, seven years could pass in the flash of an eye. Hogwarts was a treasure hoard, and it was one that he was determined to unearth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, the Sorting Ceremony!
> 
> A quick bit of information: there probably won't be any updates for the next few weeks or so! Exams are looming and they make up a large chunk of my overall grade, and to be honest, I haven't studied that much yet...
> 
> I'll write for stress relief, but I probably won't be able to sit down properly and finish an entire chapter! If I do, I will post it. But just as a heads up-I'll very likely be taking the next two weeks off!
> 
> Thanks for understanding, and I hope you enjoyed!


	5. Hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finally arrives at Hogwarts and is Sorted. His interest in the mysterious figure known as 'Tom Riddle' grows, while similarly, a certain Dark Lord finds himself becoming increasingly curious at the conundrum that was Harry Potter...

The evening air was cool against his cheeks as he stepped down from the train. Harry had just split off from the twins, as the first years apparently had to take a different route to the castle than the rest. 

“It’s tradition,” Fred had winked at him before slipping off with his entourage.

At the moment, Harry stood just off the tracks. The other first years clamoured around him, but he paid it all no mind as he maneuvered his way to the front of the crowd. The air was abuzz with excitement and it was beginning to chafe on his mood. Harry was just as eager as any of the others at the prospect of coming to Hogwarts, but his was more of a buried sort of anticipation that grew with each passing moment.

“You’re Harry Potter.”

The voice pulled him back sharply from his thoughts.

The girl was immaculately dressed in her Hogwarts robes, with her vest and shirt buttoned up to the very top. She had steely brown eyes and her lips were slightly parted with surprise, showing her large front teeth. The self-assured set of her expression despite her otherwise tense body language told Harry all he needed to know.

“My name is Hermione Granger,” she said when he didn’t reply. “Your scar is showing––That’s how I knew. I’ve read all about you, of course––you’re in _Modern Magical History_ and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_.”

He had met her type before––clever and proud and stubborn, and entirely too accustomed to being right.

“Is that so?” He glanced away from her, hoping that she would take the hint. It was a lost cause.

“Have you thought about which House you’d like to be in?”

“Not really. I don’t think it would make much of a difference.”

“Personally, I’m hoping for Gryffindor. Albus Dumbledore himself was a Gryffindor, did you know? As long as it’s not Slytherin,” she gushed, as if he hadn’t said a thing.

Harry’s eyes grew taut at the corners, a small shift that should have been hidden in the dimness of the platform. Yet...

“Is there something wrong with Gryffindor?” Granger’s tone stiffened and an offended frown touched her lips. Her gaze was piercing.

In a blink, Harry wiped all emotions from his face and looked her in the eye. “Not at all. I’m sure that’s exactly where you’ll go. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He pushed past her and ducked into the crowds. Nobody else seemed to recognize him but it was a small mercy. He let out a slow breath, allowing himself a brief furrowing of the brows before his mask slid back in place. Hermione Granger...he had a feeling that that was a name he’ll have to remember. Her sort was exactly those that invoked his ire the most, yet without a doubt, she wasn’t to be underestimated. She had proven that within seconds of their meeting. For now, he’ll simply have to be more careful.  


He caught the heavy fall of steps moments before he saw him. Harry raised a brow as the great, lumbering figure came into view. There, towering over them and grizzly face lit by the amber glow of his lantern, stood a _giant_. 

“Firs’-years, firs’-years this way!” His voice was scratchy and deep.

Harry stood quietly off to the side as the giant attempted to gather the students milling about the platform.

“He’s _huge_ ,” a petite brunette girl whispered behind him.

“That’s Rubeus Hagrid,” a boy responded. “My father’s told me about him. He’s the groundskeeper. They say he was expelled-wand snapped and all.”

“C’mon! Firs’-years, right this way!” Hagrid called over his shoulder, waddling off towards a dirt path headed down into the trees. “Watch yeh steps-the rain's done no favours for the grounds.”

Harry followed alongside the rest of the students. They moved slowly through the darkness, sidestepping gnarly roots and jagged outcrops of stone. The crunching of leaves and squelch of mud followed in their wake, unusually loud in the silence of the night. As he walked, Harry basked in the ancient magic that grew increasingly saturated as they neared the castle. None of the others seemed to feel it, however, caught up as they were in their own banal whispering.

No one spoke loudly, almost as if afraid to disturb the quietude of the forest. Harry took comfort in the lull in noise, letting his mind drift. They traversed through the dark by the light of Hagrid’s lantern, and just as Harry felt a shift in the air, the giant spoke once more. “Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight of Hogwarts in a sec,” he led them around the winding road, “Right abou’ here.”

There was a collective gasp as the deep shadows of the forest melted away. The only word that could be used to describe Hogwarts was _magical_. Spindly towers jutted up into the skies, cutting dark streaks against the smattering of stars. Liquid gold lights streamed from the castle’s countless windows, softening the rigid lines and sharp edges. The rest of the castle spread along the horizon, casting long shadows across the rippling water that was offset by the numerous lanterns hung along its walls.

Between them and the castle was an expanse of black, murky water.

“No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid called.

The first years surged forwards excitedly, shuffling down to follow Hagrid to the banks. Harry stood stationary, gazing unblinkingly at the sheer splendour of Hogwarts. A slight pressure was building within his chest, sending bursts of warmth through his limbs. Only when he was hit by a sense of lightheadedness did he realize that he was holding his breath. He inhaled deeply, let his eyes flutter closed, and drank in the thick magic roiling along his skin.

A moment of weakness had him dropping his mask. It seemed improper somehow to look upon Hogwarts the first time with feigned indifference. So he let all pretence fall away and simply _felt_. His eyes held a raw, blissful awe and his expression was open with wonder. His magic flared and something within him settled. In the cover of the night, no one witnessed his lapse in control.

“Everyone in?” Hagrid said as the last few remaining students scrambled into the boats.

Harry shook himself out of his trance and followed, stepping into the nearest boat that was still unfilled.

“Hang on tigh’!”

The boat lurched beneath his feet. Then, they were shooting across the lake, the stern of their small boats cutting into the dark waves.

Everyone else, to Harry’s relief, remained rightfully silent. There was a solemnity to that moment when they each crossed the threshold into an entirely new world. Harry splayed his hands and felt the wind run between his fingers, blowing back the long sleeves of his robes. 

The cold spray from the lake was the only thing that anchored him to the present. There was something so completely and utterly intoxicating about the castle that Harry knew that, should he be given the chance, he would be content to simply stand there and take in its grandeur forever.

Finally, the boats turned against the tide and slipped down into an opening beneath the castle. Harry felt a pang of regret as the castle disappeared out of sight.

“Off we go, now!” Hagrid said as the boats docked themselves along a long stretch of walkway. Harry clambered out with the other three in his boat and they set off after the giant.

A large set of doors swung open just as they came up to the granite steps. Hagrid’s hand, half raised in preparation to knock, dropped limply back to his side. “The firs-years, Professor McGonagall.”

Harry found himself facing the same stern professor that had accompanied him to Diagon Alley all those weeks back. She was staring them down with pursed lips, looking entirely unimpressed. Her eyes softened when they fell upon Harry. He gave a small smile back, and it seemed to appease her. 

“Thank you, Hagrid,” Professor McGonagall nodded. “Well, come along. The welcoming banquet is about to start and we wouldn’t want to further delay the sorting.”

She led them up a long flight of stairs before entering a large foyer. Harry squinted at the sudden onslaught of light. The inside of the castle was just as extravagant as its exterior, with floors of dark, varnished wood and moving pictures hung within intricate frames.

Harry couldn’t help the smile that lifted his lips. He’s seen clippings from the _Daily Prophet_ , read _Hogwarts: A History_ , and heard enough of Fred and George’s many adventures. Yet there was nothing quite like standing there himself, feeling the magic in his veins and hearing his steps echo down the corridors. There was something so utterly  _right_ about Hogwarts that he wondered how he had ever felt complete elsewhere. Walking into the castle, in all honesty, felt like coming home.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” Professor McGonagall said as they stepped through the halls. Before the feast, you will all be sorted into your houses. The four houses, named after Hogwarts’ founders, are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin respectively.”

The whispering started up once more at the mention of the Sorting. But the professor was not one to be deterred. “Whilst here, your house will be your family. You will dine together, room together, and study together. Your behaviour will either award or punish you of your house points. Any misadventures will cost points, while accomplishments will earn them. At the end of the year, the House Cup is awarded to the house with the highest points.”

She turned and roamed her eyes slowly over them to ensure that they were listening to her every word. At last, she gave a satisfied nod and brought them up to an enormous pair of oaken doors.

“The Sorting Ceremony will begin momentarily,” she said. “Please wait _quietly_ while I go inform the Headmaster.”

With that, she slipped between the doors. As soon as the doors closed the students instantly broke out into loud chatters.

“How will we be sorted?” The whiny voice of a small first-year boy drifted up behind him. “Will…will it be hard? I haven’t got any spells!”

Harry refrained from sighing. He doubted that the professors would be expecting them to perform any outrageous feats of magic on their first day within the castle. Then again, if they had bothered to research, then they would know that the entire process was no more than simply plunking a hat down over their heads.

“I heard you have to duel a third year!” An excitable looking girl said, joining in.

“No! I’ve heard you have to fight _a troll_ ,” another boy chirped.

This time, Harry did sigh. So these were the people he would be spending the next seven years with. He has been worried about not having caught up entirely, but it seemed that his concerns were unwarranted.

Instead, he thought of the nearing Sorting Ceremony. He knew that, with his reputation, regardless of which House he will be sorted into, it will be hyper-analyzed and the knowledge would spread like wildfire through the British wizarding community. There will be advantages and repercussions no matter which House he will be placed within, so the best thing he could do is to prepare for every possible scenario.

He knew that he would have to don a different mask depending on his House. The approaches to gaining the interest and friendship of a Gryffindor will be very different from the best method to ensnare a Ravenclaw, and no matter which House he ends up in, he would have to build a network and win the loyalty of its students. From that point on, he could portray himself as the model student and earn the professors' approval.

But it all boiled down to where the Sorting Hat saw fit to place him. His anticipation grew, and his mind unhelpfully cycled through the merits and downsides of each of the Houses once more. 

A startled scream suddenly jolted him. Harry whirled around, magic crackling along his skin and ready for the worst. But rather than whatever danger he had envisioned, he saw a swarm of translucent figures drifting in through the walls. Ghosts, his mind helpfully supplied. He pulled back his stance and relaxed once more-ghosts, especially the ones in Hogwarts, were relatively harmless after all. Still, it seemed that not everyone thought the same.

“Good God!” The boy with the whiny voice looked ready to faint.

Harry disguised his scoff as an unconvincing cough. Judging by their reactions alone, it was quite easy to differentiate between those who have been raised in the wizarding world and those who have come to Hogwarts without bothering to do any research beforehand from a completely non-magical background. Ghosts weren't all that uncommon, and it was common knowledge that they normally didn't interfere with the living.

“-awful, simply awful!” A stout, round-figured little man was saying as he glided over. “He’s caused a right mess this time! I suppose it’s his nature…But like I always say, we ought to give each their due chances-”

His companion snorted. “Peeves had been given his _due chances_ centuries ago. Friar, you are too soft. I say, one of these days someone will finally draw the line and he’ll be sent off for good.”

“Not much you can do against a poltergeist though,” Friar said cheerily. “Oh.” He halted as he passed through one of the first years who stood stock still, growing paler by the second. “New students! My, is it that time of the year again?”

“Ah, yes,” his companion nodded agreeably. “The Sorting-one of my favourites. The best of luck.” He tipped his head to the students, but none returned the gesture. Before any more words could be exchanged, the doors swung open and Professor McGonagall strode out.

“Move along now!” Her sharp voice gained the attention of the students once more. She stepped aside, allowing them their first glimpse into the brightly lit Great Hall. “The Sorting Ceremony will be in a moment. Form a line and keep quiet.”

Harry stepped in behind her, feeling his breath catch in his throat once more at the dozens of candles floating across the charmed ceiling. A passage from _Hogwarts: A History_ rose unbidden to the surface of his thoughts, but he pushed it down. He saw no point in quoting books when the real thing was displayed before him in all its magnificance. His eyes drifted downwards to the four tables lined vertically across the room, each beneath their respective banners. The upper years were already seated, filling up the majority of the seats. From his brief cursory scan, Gryffindor seemed to house the largest number of students while Slytherin had the least by a large margin.

The Lions were chattering amongst their House, paying the first years no mind. Harry caught the eyes of an identical pair of redheads and they grinned, waving in tandem. Harry flashed them a brief smirk before donning his neutral mask again, glancing over to the other tables.

The Ravenclaws were keeping to themselves. A third of them were pouring over half opened books, notes, or unfinished projects. The remaining were either speaking in hushed tones to their neighbours or staring blankly, lost in thought. Only a few looked towards the new students with curiosity.

The Hufflepuff table and Slytherin table were both watching the procession of first years with avid interest, but for very different reasons. The Hufflepuffs were conversing excitedly, occasionally directing warm smiles or waves at the new students. The Slytherins, however, all wore politely interested expressions that only served to show exactly how well they were able to conceal their actual emotions. It seems like for them, the game has already begun.

Harry only had a few moments to look towards the professors table at the very forefront of the Great Hall. He spotted Dumbledore's inconspicuously colorful robes and white beard, a short bespeckled professor he recognized as the famous duelling master Filius Flitwick, a sombre looking professor he knew to be the potions master Severus Snape who was sneering at the gathered first-years, and a spindly turbaned man whose name he did not know. 

He didn't have time for further observation, for all too soon, Harry and his fellow students reached the front of the room. They came to a stop before a wrinkled hat sitting atop a tall stool. Confused muttering rippled through the crowd.

“I _told_ you,” a girl could be heard fuming. “I told you we just have to try on a hat! But no, apparently having first years fight _a troll_ was much more believable!”

Suddenly, the hat straightened, and a fold appeared in its middle, not unlike a mouth. Then, it began to belt out the most off-tune song Harry has ever heard. When it was done, the students burst into applause.

“When I call out your name, you will put on the hat and sit atop the stool to be sorted,” Professor McGonagall said, unrolling a long strip of parchment that reached the floor. 

Eyes narrowed, he focused his attention. The Sorting Hat was known as one of the most ancient magical creations in history, and he was more than a little curious as to how it worked.

“Abbott, Hannah.”

Harry watched the scene with mild interest, taking in the various expressions of the students as well as the hat over the course of the Sorting. Certain students took much longer than the rest. He noted that those were the ones that tensed up during the process, face scrunched as if in the midst of an argument. 

Oh?

Was it possible to convince the hat to place students in a House other than their intended?

The thought definitely had merit. If it was true, he wondered how the hat ended up deciding whether to accept the student's opinion or to follow through with its better judgement. 

Harry was so engrossed in the thought that he nearly missed it when Professor McGonagall finally called out his name.

“Potter, Harry.”

A silence like no other fell upon the Great Hall. Harry straightened, vaguely irked. The wizarding world really has a touch for the dramatics, worshipping a _baby_ for over a decade. Harry was tempted to make them wait out of spite, but he quickly decided against it. All he would accomplish will be to add to the suspense. It would be much better to get it over with.

Without a pause he scuffled forwards, stepping up to the stool. He found himself at the direct attention of hundreds of pairs of widened eyes.

The hat touched his head and its rim obscured his vision. He thought that he heard it chuckle before its booming voice filled his mind.

**_Mr. Harry Potter. How very unexpected._ **

_Unexpected?_ Harry prompted. He knew instantly that conversing with the Hat would be a terrible hassle. It seemed more prone to misdirect questions or give frustratingly vague replies than both Dumbledore and Ollivander combined, and that was saying something.

**_It’s not every day that one could chance upon a mind as exceptional and different as your own._ **

The hat must’ve felt his sudden rise in exasperation, for it let loose a raspy chuckle. 

**_Strange. You seek recognition, yet you seem to loathe the very fame the mention of your name conjures_.**

_Earned recognition and misplaced idolization are two very different things_. 

A beat of silence passed.

**_Deep thoughts for such a young boy_**.

Harry donned a mirthless smile. 

He could feel the ancient magic of the Sorting Hat seep through his skull, mapping out every inch of his mind and flitting over the memories he’s amassed over the years. Yet, it still danced around the topic of his Sorting, content to let their conversation drag on. Harry was again reminded of Dumbledore’s evasive replies and the wand maker’s waffling words back at Diagon Alley. 

It was almost impressive how long they were able to speak without giving any real answers at all.

_Your point being?_ Harry sniped. 

**_You’d be surprised how much you can learn about a person simply from peering into the mind of their eleven years old self. As for yourself, Mr. Potter, you have immeasurable potential. A potential for greatness, yes…_ **

_Funnily enough, I’ve already been told the exact same thing_ , Harry mentally raised a brow. His patience was nearing its end, and since this conversation was kept within the recess of his mind, he didn't need to bother with niceties as he normally did. 

**_Ah, yes. Dear Garrick. He’s always been wise beyond his years, gifted with a particular touch for perception. If nothing else, you can always expect the truth from him, however incomprehensible it may be…_ **

_Why don’t you just place me in Ravenclaw and be done with it?_

While tempted by the political mind games the Slytherin House was so well known for, Harry knew that being placed in the house of the snakes would instantly raise a red flag for some of the people watching. He has plans to bring about great change. Being in Slytherin may prove to be an interesting experience, but at the same time, he would have to work much harder to earn the trust of the other students and professors. 

If all that he has to gain from Slytherin was entertainment and more cunning acquaintances, the trade-off simply wasn’t worth it. 

**_Ravenclaw? That’s interesting. Over my many years at this school, I’ve sorted countless students and I remember each and every one of them. While you would certainly find a place in Ravenclaw, it may not necessarily be the best House for you_**.

Harry briefly considered putting an end to the hat’s rambling and finish up with the Sorting before a sudden thought occurred to him. He perked in his seat, seeing the opportunity for what it was. The Sorting Hat was doubtlessly old-likely nearly as old as the castle itself. If it were being truthful and truly did remember every student it sorted, then…

_What do you know of Tom Riddle?_

Harry felt an echo of surprise in his mind that could only have come from the Sorting Hat.

**_Tom Riddle?_** It mulled over the name, enunciating each syllable. For the first time since they have started speaking, the hat sounded sombre. **_Interesting that, given centuries of my knowledge available at your disposal, you would choose to ask about a boy before your time_**.

Harry shrugged. ‘ _Tom Marvolo Riddle_ ’ has crossed his path a few times too many for it to be purely chance. Besides, they shared brother wands, and that alone was enough to convince Harry that the other boy was of great significance.

**_Young Tom was not unlike yourself-a magical prodigy brought up in the midst of uncaring muggles. His ambitions likewise rivalled your own. I’d imagine if you’d met him back then, it would be much like…staring into a mirror at your own reflection_**.

Harry felt his interest grow with every additional revelation. It was interesting how the mere mention of Tom's name had first so easily unsettled the enigmatic wandmaker Ollivander, and now even garnered a peculiarly solemn reaction from the Sorting Hat. But more importantly was the fact that there was someone _like him_ , someone whose past paralleled his own and who would be able to perfectly understand him. 

_What happened to him?_ When the hat didn’t answer, Harry commanded more forcefully. _Tell me_. He hasn’t realized that his magic has seeped into his words until the hat laughed.

**_Compulsion won’t work on me, but you can consider me impressed. I will tell you what I know of him, but it will only be general knowledge. You understand, of course. Student confidentiality and all that_.**

_Of course_ , Harry echoed sarcastically. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help the shiver of excitement that ran down his spine.

**_Tom Riddle came to Hogwarts knowing nary a thing, was sorted into Slytherin and assumed a leadership role in the House by his second year. He was quite possibly the most brilliant student to have ever crossed Hogwart’s thresholds. Prefect in his fifth year and Head Boy in his seventh. The only Hogwarts student to date who has earned O’s in every one of his OWL exams, and a perfect score in NEWTs. He had great ambitions, of course, and an equally great vision. Great, yes…but terrible_**.

At least now Harry knew where Ollivander got that line from. He paused, catching on to a few specific words. 

_Was?_ A mild disappointment set in, heavy within the pit of his stomach. _Is he…dead?_

**_That’s for you to find out, Mr. Potter_**.

Harry scowled at the hat’s infuriating reply. He hated having knowledge withheld from him more than anything else, and he had half a mind to badger an actual reply out of the old hat. Still, its words carried a ring of finality that brought a decided end to the topic, and Harry knew better than to waste time arguing for a lost cause. Instead, he stored the information away in the back of his mind for future reference, turning his attention back to the hat as it continued on.

**_Now, the question is, what to do with_ you _? They’ve all pegged you as a Gryffindor, but we both know that that is the last House you’d belong in. Chivalry and bravery-neither of which you’ve got in spades_**.

_Chivalry is for fools and bravery will get you killed_ , Harry thought. 

The thought of Lily and James flashed across his mind. They were soldiers, the both of them, sacrificed for a cause which they found noble enough to die for. It was _foolish_. What is the purpose of winning a war if one’s not there to bask in the victory?

**_Not quite how I would put it, but not entirely untrue. We might as well cross off Hufflepuff. Rowena knows that you’ll never fit in there. You’d do just as well in Ravenclaw as you would in Slytherin. You’re not lacking in curiosity and intelligence, and least of all ambition. I would leave the ultimate choice up to you, but you have already decided, no?_ **

_Would I be able to find out more about Tom Riddle in Slytherin? Would the other students know of him?_

The hat hummed with muted amusement as if Harry had said something particularly funny. **_Slytherin was his home for the better part of a decade. Try as you might, you will find that you can never truly erase your presence from Hogwarts. Better make it quick-your audience is getting reckless._**

Harry’s frown deepened. He knew that he’s been on the stool for quite some time, but he was reluctant to let the conversation end so quickly. The hat has over centuries of knowledge, after all. Above all, he wanted to know more about the boy who apparently was so alike to himself, and who was growing increasingly interesting with each passing second. But the hat would provide him with no more answers, not at that moment, anyhow. Harry sighed.

Damn his obsessive curiosity. He knew he would be taking a risk, but at the moment, the inconvenience that came with being sorted into Slytherin seemed insignificant to the burning questions plaguing his mind.

_If they want a show, then let’s give them one_ , he thought viciously. The hat chuckled before straightening and belting out-

“SLYTHERIN!”

**_Divide and conquer, Mr.Potter. The best of luck to you_**.

He pulled off the sorting hat just as it finished speaking, setting it lightly atop the stool as he hopped down.

Annoyance surged through him as he took in the professors’ and students’ faces, ranging from flabbergasted to disbelievingly horrified. Dumbledore was looking especially severe- even his eyes have stopped twinkling. Harry thought the general reaction somewhat extreme considering that he was only sorted into an unexpected House. It wasn’t as if being put into Slytherin automatically made him the next Dark Lord.

Before he gains the professors’ trust, he would have to tread lightly and watch himself. It will be a nuisance, but the decision has already been made. He just hoped that he would be able to find the answers that he sought within the snakes' den.

Harry fought to keep his expression neutral as he glided over to the table of green and silver. There were more than a few glares directed his way but he honestly couldn’t care less. They could think whatever they wanted of him. Within a week, they would be proven wrong anyway.

He settled himself down at the very end of the table, as far as he physically could from the rest of the students without having to move to the floor. The gaping continued.

He lifted his head and his eyes met a pair of steely grey. Draco Malfoy looked just as surprised as everyone else, but also a touch smug as if Harry’s placement in Slytherin was a personal victory. His mouth parted slightly as if he was preparing to greet him, but upon sensing the glares that the rest of his housing was sending Harry, he faltered. He blinked, appearing somewhat apologetic.

Harry shrugged in response. He didn’t mind all that much. Draco owed him nothing, and he didn’t expect the blonde to ruin his own standing within the House by cozying up to the Boy-Who-Lived.

Professor McGonagall was the first to recover. She cleared her throat and called out the next name.

But for the rest of the Sorting, it was clear that people’s attention has waned. Harry could feel the stares on him throughout the ceremony, despite him trying to appear as innocuous as possible. It was quite annoying, really. He hasn’t done anything _yet_ to warrant such scrutiny, nor did he want to be at the centre of attention.

Even when dinner finally ended and they were escorted back to their dorms, the other Slytherins all steered clear of him, some openly hostile while others preferring to pretend as if he doesn’t even exist. Harry never cared too much for other people's opinion of him, but having to suffer through their unfounded hatred simply because of a title he didn't even want was seriously beginning to grate on his nerves.

Harry quickened his steps until he was almost directly behind the prefect, so he wouldn't have to listen to the others' whisperings any longer. When he stepped into the Slytherin rooms, however, his annoyance dipped. 

The sleeping quarters were a beautiful mix of silver, emerald green, and dark varnished wood. Over a dozen four-poster beds stood against the walls, boasting creamy silver covers and deep green curtains. Harry chose the furthest one from the entrance. It was pushed back into the far corner of the room, and the dorm was spacious enough to fit the rest of the first years while the beds around his were all left empty. He didn’t care either way. Instead, he slipped over to where his trunk has already appeared and prepared for his first night at Hogwarts. 

As he rummaged through his belongings, a glint of milky silver caught his eye. Harry’s hand faltered. Slowly, he bent down and pushed aside his clothes to reveal the small glass case that he kept the vials of memories in. He glanced up at the other first-year boys across the room, most of who were trying avidly ignore his presence. Then, he made a split second decision.

He quickly cast a few wandless notice-me-not spells around the premise of his bed and pulled close the curtains before muttering the passcode and sliding over a hidden compartment in his trunk. A set of stairs led down into his trunk, leading towards the magic ritual room that had cost him a fortune to install. Harry scanned the room once more. After he was certain that his spells were working, he stepped into his trunk, closing the lid behind him.

 

 

* * *

 

It was the early hours of dawn when Harry, at last, stepped out from his trunk. He slumped down into the soft mattress of his bed, feeling a tinge of awe even through his fatigue induced haze. He didn’t have enough time to watch every one of the memories, but he did manage to get through the ones whose titles he found particularly interesting.

It was strange to see a much younger Dumbledore, one that has yet to gain the warm twinkle of his eyes and who glared down his nose at every passing Slytherin with open suspicion.

_How hypocritical_ , Harry gave a wry smile. _To advocate for equality and yet still actively work to ostracize an entire quarter of Hogwart’s student population_.

There was one boy that Dumbledore especially couldn’t stand-Tom Marvolo Riddle. Harry’s eyes glimmered at the memory of the dark-haired, sharp-eyed boy sitting isolated at the very end of the Slytherin table, an aristocratic curve to his jaw beneath the baby fat. Harry knew who he was before any names had been called-either Ollivander nor the hat had lied when they said that he and Tom shared a striking resemblance. 

_Mirror images_ , Harry found himself echoing the Sorting Hat’s words. 

Unfortunately, he only managed to catch a few glimpses of the other boy, and when he did it was only in the background of the memories. The closest he managed to get was in the whole mess with the Chamber of Secrets, when Tom had brought in a disarmed Rubeus Hagrid to Headmaster Dippet before the entire school. Harry had snorted at the scene. 

It was _ludicrous_.

It was highly unlikely that Hagrid was the heir of _anything_ , never less Slytherin himself. That Tom was able to convince nearly all the professors and students that Hagrid was the instigator behind the petrifications and the death of Warren Myrtle spoke more for his cunning resourcefulness and acting skills than it did anything else. Harry had known immediately that Tom had either been covering up for someone else or he had been the perpetrator himself.

Going from what little he's seen of the boy, he'd guess that the latter was far more likely. But what did that mean? Could Tom Riddle truly be heir to Salazar Slytherin? Harry thought over the idea in his mind, but ultimately he was too tired to attempt to consider how that could be possible with his muggle name. If he was descended from Slytherin, then it would have to be from his mother's side. 

But it was irritatingly difficult, if not impossible, to discover that titbit of knowledge about a student from over fifty years ago. After all, there was no reason for a student's parentage to be made readily available to the general public. Harry stored the notion for later consideration and turned his languid thoughts back to the boy himself.

All in all, Tom at the age of sixteen was a sight to behold. Curly locks of the richest brown parted perfectly to the side, serene green eyes that masked his true emotions, and sculpted features that spoke of a Pureblood lineage yet somehow shared no similarities with prominent Pureblood families such as the Blacks or the Malfoys. He had stood there amidst a sea of students, head held high, told a lie so ridiculous that it couldn’t possibly be true, and won an award for it.

It was absurd. It was entirely and completely preposterous. It was _brilliant_.

For the first time in the eleven years of his life, Harry found himself struck speechless through sheer awe. For the first time in his life, Harry wholly admired another person. It was an entirely new sentiment, albeit not a bad one.

Harry absently ran a hand down his holly wand and felt a vibrating warmth in response. _Brother wands_. The reminder brought a smirk to his face.

He remembered the awestruck gazes of the other Slytherins as Tom sat himself down in their midst. The students had flocked to him, Purebloods most of all. Somehow, a boy who was half-blood at most and possibly even a muggle-born had managed to conquer the House that valued blood purity above all else. It was no easy feat. After all, Harry himself has felt the weighted and judgemental glares of the Slytherins that very night. 

“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” Harry whispered into the darkness of the night. The name rolled off his tongue. He felt a stirring excitement grow within him as he laid back, pulling up the covers. 

At the moment, the other boy was still an unknown, a shadowy figure seen through the lens of someone else’s eyes. He was a puzzle to be solved, a secret to be unveiled, a mystery to be pondered over.

And Harry never left mysteries unsolved.

He promised himself that he would unearth all he could about this boy that was so alike to himself. There was a nagging sensation at the back of his mind as if he was missing something vital, as if he was somehow missing the bigger picture. Harry let out a forceful exhale. He still knew too little to begin piecing everything together, but he was patient. He still has seven years ahead of him anyway.

Harry closed his eyes to the soft coolness of the duvet and the beginnings of a plan knitting together in his mind. If he wanted to know the entirety of the ins-and-outs of Slytherin, then he would have to rise to the very top. Judging by the other Slytherins’ reaction toward him that night, he knew that an eventual confrontation was inevitable. He will be ready when it comes, and then he will lay the house on its knees.

After all, Slytherins were drawn to power. And if they wanted power, then he would be willing to show them the true extent of what he was capable of.

It was with that thought in mind that he finally fell into a dreamless sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

The next day, Harry swept into the Great Hall when breakfast was already well underway. There was a sudden dip in conversation as the others noticed his presence. 

More than a few heads turned to watch, some with curious surprise and others with disappointment or suspicion. It was unusual how complete strangers were so thoroughly impacted by his House placement. It shouldn’t have made a difference to them whether he was a Slytherin or a Hufflepuff, yet here they were, treating him with a complete turnabout in attitude than prior to his Sorting.

Harry ambled over to the Slytherin tables and slid into a seat at the very end of the table, leaving a large gap between him and the rest of the students. It was quite obvious that they didn’t want his company and he himself has no desire to dragged into some sort of row in the middle of breakfast.

He piled his plate with scones and sausages and poured himself a cup of earl grey, watching as one of the school’s barn owls dove and landed before him, dropping a roll of newspaper in his lap. It struck out a leg and he absentmindedly counted a few knuts into its pouch before it took off again. Harry unfurled his copy of the _Daily Prophet_ and read through the news as he ate, paying no mind to the gawking of the rest of the students.

A brief commotion down the table caught his interest but he kept his eyes on the page before him. Before he has managed to establish his own position in the House, he would not meddle with any of the other Slytherins’ ungainly political games.

“Draco!” A shout echoed across the room.

Harry flipped the page, taking a sip of his tea. The Malfoy heir’s business was none of his concern.

A set of footsteps neared. To his surprise, it halted right behind his seat, and the next moment, a dull thump sounded next to him. There was only the slightest pause in Harry’s hand as it moved across the paper, flipping the page once more. He chewed and swallowed, ignoring the presence beside him in favour of scanning the latest report from the Ministry of Magic in regards to several newly proposed legislation.

He felt the person beside him shift awkwardly. Harry inhaled deeply and turned, setting down his drink with a firm thud. His brows rose slightly at the pair of determined grey eyes staring back at him.

“Malfoy,” he said, not bothering to conceal the tinge of surprise to his voice.

“Potter,” the blonde haired boy muttered. Instead of his normally impeccable posture, his shoulders slouched nervously, and his hands were fisted where they laid atop the table. He chanced a glance upwards before looking away quickly again. “And just Draco is fine.”

Harry sat back in contemplation, head tilted to the side. Draco’s gesture of friendship was as clear as day and laid bare for the entirety of Hogwarts to see. Now, the final decision was left up to Harry. In all honesty, he was amazed that Draco was even brave enough to make such a statement. Finally, he folded the newspaper and rolled it up, stuffing it into his bag. He dropped his gaze from Draco and could almost feel the tension drain out of the other boy.

“Tea?” He offered, sending an unused cup and saucer sliding across the table with the flick of a wrist. 

Draco started, looking down dazedly at the glassware before him. He blinked. “Oh, please. Thank you,” he said, coughing to hide the slight crack of his voice.

Harry hid a smile. A nearby teapot glided over, filling Draco’s cup. “You can call me Harry,” he said. Draco looked up, shock evident in his eyes. Harry smiled, a crooked lift of the lips that was more wry than amused. 

Ever since they have first spoken at  _Madame Malkin's_ , Draco has been on edge about his Dark-oriented heritage. Harry knew that it was something he'd have to address eventually, and he supposed that sooner was always better than later. “It’s fine. I won’t hold anyone’s families against them, so you can loosen up. Besides,” his eyes slid from Draco’s face over to the professors’ table. Dumbledore was seated in his normal spot, chatting jovially with Professor McGonagall. “Our parents are quite alike, in my opinion.”

“They are?” Draco asked in a strangled tone.

Harry would have laughed, but he knew that this was a sensitive spot for the young Malfoy and so he hid his amusement. “Yes. They each had strong beliefs, they stuck to them, and gave their due sacrifices to their chosen leaders.”

Draco remained silent for a long moment. Harry saw the boy’s hand tremble slightly and looked away, allowing him the illusion of privacy.

Ever since their encounter at Diagon Alley, Harry has known of Draco’s insecurities in regards to his family’s history. Harry didn’t mind all that much that Draco’s parents were both marked Death Eaters. All it really meant was that they were on one side of the war, while Dumbledore and his own parents were on the other. Harry, as of yet, has no loyalty to either, and there was simply no point to faulting someone for their beliefs. 

He would be a hypocrite if he held any revulsion towards Dark families, considering his own interest in the more obscure and less legal branches of magic.

“Thank you,” Draco whispered, so soft that he could barely hear it.

“Hm,” Harry said lightly. He knew better than to make a big deal of the exchange. He finished off the last of his breakfast and drained his tea. “So,” he turned to his companion. “What brings you here? I’d have assumed that there would be more merit to sticking with…” He gestured across the room, where the rest of the Slytherins were still watching them like hawks.

Draco snorted derisively. 

His brief moment of vulnerability had already passed, and he once again wore his patented smirk, chin lifted haughtily. “You assumed wrong. They can be quite irritating at times. You’re much better company.”

“Thank you,” Harry chuckled. “It’s always nice to be appreciated.”

Draco raised a delicate brow. “Good Merlin-You’re _appreciated_ plenty. I’m sure you hear it just about every day.”

“What? The Boy-Who-Lived business?” Harry scoffed. “Ah, yes. Having my praises sung for something I _apparently_ did as a babe is always the highlight of my day. There’s nothing I love more than being hailed as the great Dumbledore’s protégé.”

The two boys exchanged a grim look before both grinned. Harry watched as the Draco’s eyes flickered to the headmaster just as the older wizard plopped a lemon drop in his mouth, sucking on it thoughtfully. The blonde broke down into sniggers, trying but failing to hide his mirth behind his hand. At the sound, Dumbledore looked towards them curiously, before opting for giving them a cheery wave. That only served to add to the Malfoy heir’s predicament, as his shoulders shook even harder.

“Cracked, isn’t he?” Draco said once his laughter has receded. He turned to Harry, the expression on his face much more open and comfortable than Harry has ever seen him.

“Barking mad,” Harry agreed, giving a quick wave back at the headmaster. Dumbledore, apparently satisfied, once again returned to conversing with the other professors. Draco huffed, but a smile still played along his lips.

Harry turned, ignoring the blatant attempts of the other students in the Great Hall to hide their spying. To his surprise, he found that he had actually enjoyed his interactions with Draco. The other boy was interesting to talk to and has a dry sense of humour that Harry could appreciate.

_Well,_ he mused. If he has to befriend someone, the Malfoy heir was as good a candidate as any other. Draco obviously still has much to learn, going by his childish actions on the Hogwarts Express. But the fact that he was willing to brave the entirety of Slytherin House's disapproval to continue his friendship with Harry was more than enough for Harry to overlook that one shortcoming. 

Anyhow, with time, Draco will grow out of his immaturity and become the powerful wizard Harry knew that he has the potential to be.

“Come on, then,” he said, “Let’s get going.”

Draco nodded, taking one more sip of his tea before shouldering his bag and standing. “Alright. I’ve heard that Hogwart’s staircases are terribly unpredictable, and I don’t want to be late to the first lesson.”

“Charms, was it?” Harry stood as well, and the two boys strode together towards the entrance of the Great Hall.

“Charms,” Draco agreed. They stepped over the threshold and let the doors swing closed behind them, leaving behind a befuddled crowd of students that broke into whispers as soon as they’ve gone.

 

 

* * *

 

Tom Marvolo Riddle, the Dark Lord Voldemort, was confused- _very_ confused. 

It has been difficult enough to remain sane on less than a percent of a soul and without an actual body, never mind forming coherent thoughts. Somewhere in the back of his muddled thoughts, he’s always known that he may have toed the line with the horcruxes. 

Having one had been easy, two had been fine, even three had been tolerable. But after that, each successive horcrux drained more out of him than he was prepared to give, and from that point on, it has been a downward spiral. Seven was definitely too many-but it was a _necessity_. 

Damn Dumbledore and that cursed prophecy. 

It had been excruciatingly painful to see all his hard-earned results seep down the drains as a result of a _self-fulfilling prophecy_. He had realized all too late and by then he was already well on the path to his own demise. But he’ll be damned if he let a _brat_ get the better of him. Those shockingly green eyes had haunted him ever since he’s first laid eyes on the child, and he’s let that hatred fester within him for all these years.

He had been prepared to hate Harry Potter, but it seemed that the boy had managed to tear apart even that plan.

Harry Potter was different from anything he’s ever imagined.

It had almost been chilling to see the black-haired, emerald-eyed boy, a muggle-raised half-blood like himself, to be sorted into the Slytherin House which loathed his very existence. It had been like seeing a ghost when the boy slipped into the Great Hall that morning, mask perfectly in place and outer robes unbuttoned, walking gracefully down the aisle between the tables.

All those years back, he himself had strolled around Hogwarts, outer robes left open in obvious violation of the school rules. He had done it partially as a statement or sort, to show that he had absolute power within the school, but mostly to spite Dumbledore. Seeing Harry Potter, Dumbledore’s _precious_ saviour, do the very same brought a surge of smug vindictiveness that would probably have been enough to fuel a corporeal patronus.

And then, Harry had sat in an isolated corner at the far end of the Slytherin table. For a fleeting second, he saw himself as a first year, sitting in the same spot, and the images overlaid one another, blending together until he wasn’t quite sure whether he was in the past or the present.

Now, he wasn’t sure what exactly he felt for Harry Potter. The boy had never acted against him-his war had involved his parents, but not him. The spell that had reduced him to his current state had also been Lily Potter’s. 

He had only assumed that the boy would hate him and anything the Dark simply for what had happened to his parents. Yet he was proven wrong once again when the boy was approached by the young Malfoy heir and proceeded to accept his friendship with open arms.

So, he was confused, and for the first time in several decades, he found himself at a loss as to what to do next. Whatever anger and spite he felt towards Harry Potter has turned to irritation and grudging curiosity. 

Would Harry bent under the pressure and be content to live as a puppet to the Light? Or would he continue as he is, and walk the same path that Tom himself once had?

At last, he decided that it was useless to speculate at that point. He would have to keep a closer eye on the boy throughout the school year, but perhaps he could afford to slightly adjust his plans.

His main goal in infiltrating Hogwarts was to acquire the philosopher’s stone. He had originally planned to bring an end to Harry Potter while he was within reach and finish off what he started eleven years ago. But now, things were no longer as they had seemed.

Harry Potter will live on, if only so that his unvoiced questions could be answered. The Dark Lord couldn’t deny that he was excited to see exactly what choices the boy would end up making. And he was still young-should he choose to side with the Light, there would still be enough time to carry out his previous ideas.

For the moment, he turned his attention away from the Boy-Who-Lived. There were still months before he would be able to make an attempt for the philosopher’s stone, and before then, he has to build up his strength. His magic was still weakened from living as a wraith for over a decade and he knew that he would have to be in best condition for when he finally makes a move.

Lord Voldemort glanced up just as Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy stood, walking out the Great Hall while grinning over some private joke. As the boys disappeared into the corridors, he melted back into the subconscious. Yes...he would simply observe from the sidelines for now. 

Professor Quirrell blinked and the tinge of red faded away from his eyes, unnoticed by the professors and the students around him. He glanced towards the rambunctious assembly of first years, fidgeted, and sighed. It was going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 is done! Sorry for the wait and I appreciate your patience! There's finally a lull in the midterm flurry and I'm hoping to get as much writing done as I can! In the next chapter, Harry will get his first taste of Hogwart's classes...


	6. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has his first flying lesson, followed by a minor inconvenience.
> 
> Bad decisions are made (by the others), and Harry reaps the benefits.
> 
> Dumbledore has a minor breakdown

The first week of class went by without a hitch. Harry sat in the front row of every class, not because he wanted to gain the professors’ attention, but rather so that he wouldn’t have to see the not-so-subtle looks that flickered in his direction once every few moments. Draco accompanied him when he could, but other times he was dragged away by his other friends, who clearly didn’t approve of his friendship with Harry.

As for the rest of the students, they didn’t seem to quite know what to make of the Boy-Who-Lived. He was still Harry Potter, defeater of the Dark Lord and the only one to have survived the killing curse, yet at the same time he was a Slytherin, and carried himself in such a way that seemed to create an unbridgeable gap between him and everyone else.

He never voluntarily spoke in class, but whenever he was called on, he would always give the correct answer. During practical lessons, he would master the spells before anyone else, and usually within his first few tries. He was appropriately respectful, attentive, and just about the perfect student any professor could ask for. However, few ever saw the boy outside of classes and meals. He blended seamlessly into the crowds and seemingly disappeared, only to be seen again the next time when his attendance was mandatory.

None of the students could form a set opinion on their boy saviour, a muggle-raised half-blood who had the looks to rival any of the purest lines, and who seemed to have a better understanding of magic than all of the Pureblood heirs and heiresses who have been raised in the wizarding world their entire life. He was attentive and polite, yet cold and untouchable.

All in all, Harry Potter felt less like a person and more like a concept. 

Yes, he was the Boy-Who-Lived. Yes, he was eleven, has green eyes and black hair, and wore his robes open in spite of the many warnings he has received from his Head of House. Yes, he was a prodigy at magic yet he hasn’t even a sliver of arrogance. But beyond that, no one knew much about who he truly was. His housemates only knew the bare minimum, and even Draco Malfoy, who was, surprisingly, the closest thing Harry has to a ‘friend’, admitted to not knowing him all that well. 

Harry himself, for the most part, divided his time between exploring Hogwart’s every nook and cranny and flipping through tomes in the library. He familiarized himself with knowledge of some less well-known spells from books normally perused by the upper years, read extensively about wizarding traditions that he was not aware of, and flipped through past student records, partially out of curiosity, but mainly just in search of one name.

There wasn’t much else he could do before securing his position at the top of the Slytherin hierarchy. For that to happen, one of the other snakes would have to make a move against him first. He knew that the surest way to gain the loyalty of the other Slytherins wasn’t through active aggression, but to dominate through retaliation. And that way, the blame could never be pinned on him.

At the moment, he was walking through the halls after most of his classes for the day have finished. It was Friday, and the only remaining lesson was flying. He had half a mind to simply return to the dormitories and pretend that he had forgotten. After all, what use would a childish school sport be of to him?

But before he could act on his plan, a blur of black and green and platinum practically barrelled into him.

“Harry!” The Malfoy heir, who didn’t particularly look the part of an heir at the moment, gushed. “Flying classes are today!”

“I’m aware,” Harry remarked drily. Draco, however, didn’t seem to notice as he latched onto his arm and dragged him down the corridors.

“Come on, we can head to the field together,” he enthused, “I’ve been searching all over for you. I was afraid you’d forgotten.”

Harry’s brow rose, but he let himself be pulled along by the other boy. “You’re very excited for someone who’s grown up with Quidditch.”

Draco cast him a miffed glance. “That’s not the point, Harry.” His chin rose haughtily. “The Head of Houses or team captains will sometimes be keeping an eye out during the first year flying classes. Of course, you won’t be playing for the team until the second year, but there’s no better time to be scouted.”

Harry shrugged indifferently. He had no desire to risk breaking his neck or losing a limb over something as pointless as the Quidditch Cup. He already knew the ins and outs of the game, courtesy of Draco’s lengthy rants in the Slytherin dorms, and he naturally also knew of Draco’s dream of becoming the seeker for the house team. If there were any truth to his boasts, Harry was certain that the blonde would have no problems with getting in.

As they trekked down the stairs and through the courtyard, Draco peered towards Harry out of the corner of his eyes. “Are you trying out next year?”

“Why, afraid of competition?” Harry teased, a smirk tugging up his lips.

“No!” A light blush rose in Draco’s cheeks. “I just meant that- if you’re interested, I can teach you, is all.”

Harry made a noncommittal noise. He didn’t have the time to spare for their biweekly practices nor did he have any interest in the sport itself. Besides, he wasn’t even sure if he would be good at it. Professor McGonagall’s present to him was still stashed somewhere in his trunk, unused. It wasn’t that he was disinterested, but rather, he was simply too busy with everything else. But faced with Draco’s sincere gaze, Harry sighed.

“I won’t be at the try-outs,” he began and Draco visibly deflated. “But I’ll still take you up on your offer. Flying seems like a useful skill to have,” he allowed. The blonde livened up once more, prior disappointment all but forgotten.

“It’ll be great,” he promised, speeding up their pace as the Quidditch pitch came into view. Harry followed along, joining his friend at the edge of the Slytherin crowd. The other Purebloods greeted Draco, and for the most part, Harry was ignored.

“Gather around!” The sharp whistling from Madam Hooch drew the attention of the students. She was a thin, sharp-eyed woman with silvery grey hair that was swept back in short spikes. Her slightly hooked nose vaguely reminded Harry of a falcon’s beak.

“Well? What’s the holdup?” She snapped. The first years stirred uncertainly, not quite sure what was expected of them. “Everyone stand by a broom.” Her yellow eyes glinted as she waited. Harry picked one of the relatively newer brooms and Draco took up his spot by his side, grumbling about the quality, or lack thereof, of the Hogwarts brooms. “Now, place your dominant hand overtop and say ‘Up!’”

Harry did as he was told, and was surprised when the broom jumped immediately into his outstretched hands. A familiar warmth similar to when he had first held his wand coursed through his arm. He blinked, revelling in the natural fit of the broom in his hand. Remembering Professor McGonagall’s words from when she had first met him, he supposed that there was some truth in him inheriting skills from his parents. 

Turning, he saw that Draco was holding his broom as well, but not many others were as successful. The two boys exchanged a quick grin as frustrated voices continued to ring out around them.

Once a few minutes passed, Madam Hooch instructed them on the proper grips, how to stand, and how to mount without falling off. She then spent the next few moments weaving through the first years and correcting any mistakes- 

“I said to bent your knees, not to squat for Merlin’s sake-”

And to keep a few of the more mischievous students in check-

“Mr. Finnegan, do stop that ridiculous skit. Are you planning on sweeping the grounds all afternoon or are you actually interested in learning to fly?”

But eventually, the strict seeming professor eventually deemed them ready for the next stage. “Now, on my whistle, you will all kick off from the ground-hard. But you will only hover a few feet above the ground before coming back down by tilting your brooms downwards, understood? On three, two-”

Harry bent his knees as per instructions as a brief jolt of anticipation coursed through him. But before the whistle even touched the professor’s lips, a cry suddenly sounded and a flurry of dark robes shot up straight into the sky.

“Is that Longbottom?” Harry blinked, straightening.

Draco sniggered behind a hand. “The one and only.”

Harry’s expression was entirely blank aside from a raised brow as he watched the trembling boy clutch desperately onto the broom. His trajectory suddenly tilted, and before anyone could react, his hold slipped and he was free falling towards the ground.

The sickening crunch that followed had even Harry holding back a wince. 

“My arm…” The Longbottom heir moaned, looking on the verge of tears. His stray broom swerved before flying off, disappearing over the top of one of the castle’s many towers.

Harry watched as the boy laid with his face in the grass and robes stained with mud, trembling under the Slytherins’-and even some of the Gryffindors’-jeers and pitying looks. 

It was incomprehensible how great a difference there was between Neville Longbottom and Draco Malfoy, both of whom were the sole heirs of powerful Pureblood families. Neville lacked confidence almost as much as Draco exuded it. Harry absentmindedly wondered what could have possibly happened to the boy to reduce him to such a state.

“Oh dear,” Madam Hooch muttered, rushing to Neville’s side. “Broken wrist.”

The boy sniffled, only serving to increase the murmurs from the other students. After taking a few minutes to send Neville off to the Hospital Wing, Madam Hooch returned to drill them on proper take-off and landing positions once more before giving them the rest of the lesson to familiarize themselves with flying.

“Harry, are you certain that you’ve never flown before?” Draco was currently hovering some distance above the ground, his tone a mix of envious admiration and surprise. 

Harry shrugged, pulling his broom up from a steep dive he had taken. There was something about the wind pulling through his hair, the colours blending together around him, and the inherent, unshakeable control he had over the broom that emptied his mind of his normally swirling thoughts, providing him a sense of clarity that he rarely ever had. He gripped the broom tightly before cutting an elegant arc through the air, landing lightly on the ground. Draco joined his side a moment later.

“That was brilliant,” the blonde declared, “Imagine what you could do with a real racing broom! Won’t you reconsider about the try-outs?”

“I think you already know the answer, Draco,” Harry laughed, letting the broom drop to the ground. Despite his talent for flying, the most it could ever amount to would be a hobby. While he had confidence in his own flying, he couldn’t say the same of the other students’ actions. 

There were probably more than a few people from other houses who would be out to get him simply on the grounds that he was a Slytherin. More than that, he knew that those within his own house wouldn’t pass up the chance to end him for good under the guise of a Quidditch accident, all because he was the Boy-Who-Lived. 

So, time commitment aside, joining the House team had never been an option to begin with.

“Shame,” Draco pouted. Or at least, as close to a pout as the Malfoy heir would allow himself while still maintaining his haughty Pureblood mask. 

Harry smirked. “I think your minions are vying for your attention,” he told his friend, peering over the other’s shoulder.

Draco turned, only to be faced with the sight of the other Pureblood heirs and heiresses from his clique whispering furiously. Upon catching his eyes, the Parkinson heiress waved conspicuously, evidently mentioning for him to go over.

“I suppose that’s your cue to leave,” Harry stated, meeting Draco’s resigned gaze. He could tell that the Malfoy heir still wanted to continue their conversation, and despite enjoying his company, Harry still had things to do that the other couldn’t know of-yet. Not until he’s earned Harry’s complete trust.

Draco took the dismissal for what it was, shoulders slumping. “Yeah. I’ll see you at dinner?”

Harry agreed, amused by the way the other boy perked at his acceptance. Though, it was rather understandable, as associating with Parkinson was probably the furthest thing from pleasant. 

As the other students began to filter out from the Quidditch pitch, Harry slipped back into the castle and headed for the library. 

He greeted Madam Pince as he entered, receiving a resigned glare in return. With his recurring visits, the stern and grouchy librarian had come to expect his presence on most afternoons after classes have ended. He retreated to his usual corner spot, setting down his bag before browsing the shelves. 

For the next few hours, he finished up his homework for the weekends and did more individual research. Unfortunately, he hadn’t managed to find anything of importance even as dinnertime neared.

As he walked out into the halls, he briefly debated between heading back to the Common Rooms or going directly to the Great Hall. But the decision was taken from him when an older student roughly shoved past and nearly sent him to the floor. 

Somewhat surprised and more than a little annoyed that he had been caught off-guard, Harry spun on the aggressors, palming his wand, and found two older Slytherin boys looming over him.

“Oh, look,” the older boy crooned. Harry recognized him as the fifth year Marcus Flint. His face was twisted in a condescending sneer. “If it isn’t Harry Potter, all by his lonesome. Malfoy isn’t here to protect you now.”

Once the initial shock passed, Harry almost laughed at the sheer stupidity of that statement. Him? Protected by Draco Malfoy? The idea was comical at best.

Behind him, he heard another set of footsteps and he knew that he was surrounded. Judging by the spikes of magic he sensed in the air, he’d guess that there were only Flint and his friend. He lowered his head, his bangs falling down to hide the glint that passed his eyes. The was the opportunity that he has been waiting for, conveniently wrapped and tied and practically dropped onto his lap.

“Why don’t we keep him company?” Another fifth year that Harry can’t put a name to came up to his other side and slung an arm over his shoulder. Nails dug painfully into Harry’s arm and he had to swallow a snarl at the sheer audacity of the other boy. 

How dare he touch him so casually. Has this not been essential to his goal, he would already have snapped the boy’s hand with his magic.

“Going to take me to an empty classroom somewhere? Is that how it’s going to be done?” Harry said softly. “Afraid you’ll be seen tormenting a defenseless first-year?”

Flint growled, lip pulling back to reveal a mouthful of uneven teeth. “You wish. We’re headed back for the Common Room, where everyone can see just how pathetic the Boy-Who-Lived actually is.”

Harry’s lips thinned at the mention of his title, but it went unnoticed. The older boys pulled him along roughly, flanking him and marching purposefully down the halls. Harry didn’t bother resisting. He had been prepared to take care of the other students right then and there and let the news spread, but Flint was right. Having an audience was much, much better.

When they were nearing the entrance to the Slytherin dorms, the group came to a stop at the sight of one Severus Snape strolling down the corridors. Snape, too, froze at the image they made, Harry held tightly between two taller boys and the obvious animosity sparking between them.

For a moment, Harry was certain that the professor would interrupt and destroy his perfect chance. But a moment was all it was, and it soon passed. To his shock, the professor merely gave them a thin-lipped smile with a knowing glimmer in his eyes. “Don’t leave a mess,” the man drawled before sauntering away, dark robes billowing around him.

Harry knew that the professor held an unfounded hatred for him ever since the first potions lesson, but he never expected that Snape would place his personal vendetta above his responsibilities as a Hogwarts professor and the Slytherin Head of House. 

A fleeting smirk passed his face. It was all the better for him.

“No one to save you now, Potter,” Flint taunted. The other boy turned to the wall and muttered the password of the week, “Merlin.”

The walls rippled open to reveal the familiar silver and green of the Slytherin Common Room. They pulled him inside forcefully, sending him sprawling backward into one of the silvery grey armchairs. The commotion drew every eye in the Common Room, and Harry felt rather than saw every student perk up, anticipating the beat-down that was about to take place. 

As it was a Friday afternoon, the Common Room was much more filled than usual. Harry could see Draco across the room in his friend group. The blonde’s expression was conflicted and he took a step forward, only to be held back by his other friends. 

“Harry Potter,” Flint spat. It was clear that he was the leader since the other fell in line behind him, letting him have his fill first. “The-Boy-Who-Lived. Funny.” He grinned. “I expected more of a fight from the one who supposedly bested the Dark Lord.”

“Funny,” Harry echoed, sitting back. His head was still lowered to hide the malicious curve of his lips, but his body was entirely relaxed, showing that he was completely at ease even while being held at wand tip by a fifth-year student. He glanced up through loose locks of dark hair and met the older students’ eyes. “And here I thought we’d be doing more than exchanging insults.”

“You better watch yourself, Potter,” Flint scowled, stalking closer. “You’ll find that in Slytherin, false bravado will get you nowhere.”

“Is that a threat?” 

Flint bristled. “Don’t talk back to your superiors, you dirty mudblood.”

Harry’s eyes hardened. He was instantly brought back to a memory from the previous night of a boy in second-hand robes, sitting alone with whispers of ‘mudblood’ and ‘dirty’ sounding around him. It was frankly astounding how little Slytherin has changed over the course of more than half a century. It was similarly astounding how little Slytherins managed to learn from their past mistakes. 

“How is it that a filthy blood-traitor managed to stop the most powerful Dark wizard of his time?” Flint drew his wand. It was a choppy movement that was all practicality, leaving no room for fancy flourishes. 

Harry knew instantly that Flint was a practiced dueller. He also knew that he wouldn’t stand a chance against him in a formal duel. Rather, he would have to rely on his raw magic.

Flint gestured to the other boy, who drew his wand as well and came forward. “Let’s teach our saviour a lesson, shall we? Let’s see exactly how weak the Light’s poster boy really is.”

Before another word could be said, Harry’s head snapped up. The sudden movement caused his attackers to falter, and that would soon prove to be a fatal error. “I’m weak? I’m filthy? If that’s the case, then I wonder what that makes you.” He stood in one fluid motion, letting his magic burst forth, fuelled by his cold fury. 

The other occupants of the room simultaneously shuddered, feeling, for the first time in their lives, a magic so intoxicatingly powerful that it threatened to drown. 

Flint’s face drained of colour. All at once, the two boys crumbled to the floor, bodies straining under the invisible weight of Harry’s magic. 

Harry slowly strode forward, step by step, until he stood directly above them. He struck quite the terrifying image, a boy of eleven standing over two fifteen-year-olds, posture loosened and eyes glowing the same shade as the Avada Kedevra. The other Slytherins held their breath, thoroughly shocked by the unexpected reversal of roles.

“It’s strange,” Harry murmured, letting his own wand slip into his hand even though he didn’t need it. He caressed the holly wood gently, taking pleasure in the way the other boys’ fear-filled eyes followed the movement. “It’s strange how you dared to level your wand at me when you lack the strength to even stand in my presence.”

His magic swelled, applying more pressure on the collapsed figures before him. One of them let out a strangled whimper while the other seemed incapable of even producing a sound. Flint’s eyes wavered, the disdain from moments ago replaced by awed fear.

Harry smiled, and it was a terrible thing. He lowered himself until he was in a low crouch, just above eye level with the other boy. “But you’re right.” Confusion flooded Flint’s expression for the fraction of a second. “False bravado will get you nowhere. In fact, it might just get you killed.” The confusion bled away to desperation and terror.

“Now,” Harry continued, straightening once more. “I want you to understand, now, that you’re still alive only because I want you to be. With just the slightest push, I can collapse your lungs, crush your skulls, and break every bone in your body. I can make you bleed. I can make you scream.”

His magic squeezed around them for emphasis. Flint shook in silent agony. His companion was writhing and clawing at the ground, nails leaving behind a jagged line in the wooden floorboards. Harry gave his magic another push and Flint sagged, letting out a mix of a sob and a moan. A faint trail of blood streamed down his nose, dripping down and smudging on the floor.

“Or even better,” Harry said gaze gliding across the room. 

Everyone else looked down when his stare passed over him, a clear show of submission. Finally, his eyes landed on the glass pane that separated them from the lake. “Perhaps I can have you two go for a swim. And should you have…a little accident, let’s say, that’ll be no fault of mine, will it now?”

Flint and the other boy vehemently shook their heads, tear tracks running down their cheeks and anguish written clear across their faces.

Harry walked around until he has his back to them, and regarded the rest of the room. The Slytherins were deathly silent, staring unblinkingly down at him with ashen faces. “But seeing as you two are kind enough to make an example of yourselves of what would happen when someone threatens me, I will give you both a second chance.”

He turned and stepped around the boys’ fallen bodies until he was sat in the armchair again, one knee crossed over the other. He set his elbows upon the armrests and intertwined his fingers, looking down expressionlessly. “If you…beg, I’ll consider letting you off with a warning. How does that sound?”

Flint and the other boy both slumped as the grip of his magic loosened, just enough for them to only feel mild discomfort instead of pain. They gulped down breaths of air, looking as if they had just been held underwater for minutes.

The other students in the room stirred, obviously uneasy. It seemed as if the collective opinion was that Flint and the other Pureblood boy would never lower themselves to ask anything of Harry Potter, and it was clear that they have far underestimated the sheer power and pressure that Harry’s magic held. 

Flint moved first. He lowered his head, shifting so that he was on his knees and his forehead was pressing against the floor. “Please…” He let out a hoarse whisper, tremors running through his limbs from the aftermath of being nearly crushed by Harry’s magic. “Please…”

Everyone else in the room bore witness to two fifth-year students prostrating themselves before Harry, pleading for their lives. Harry, meanwhile, sat before them as an impartial judge, an effortless grace to the set of his shoulders and emotions hidden perfectly beneath an unreadable mask.

“Please what?”

“Please…” Flint rasped. “Please forgive me.”

The other boy soon followed suit.

“Then let me make myself perfectly clear,” Harry said softly. The entire room seemed to lean inwards to catch his voice. His eyes curved as his lips pulled upwards in the illusion of a beatific smile. 

“The purity of your blood has nothing to do with whether you’re strong or weak. It only goes to show that you’ve started off several steps ahead of everyone else. You’ve lived in the wizarding world for your entire life, while many half-blood and muggleborns have just been introduced to it. By that logic, you have no excuse for failing to excel. You have no excuse for being any less powerful in terms of magic than any of the other students in your year.” Harry stood. He was addressing the entire room now, instead of the two boys bowed before him. “And that includes each and every one of you. If you are from a Pureblood family, then let your achievements speak for themselves and rise to the standard that such a title demands of you. And if you are a half-blood or a muggleborn, then that only means that you will have to work harder, study harder, put in twice the amount of effort your peers do in order to catch up and perhaps even surpass those who have over a decade’s worth of magical knowledge than you.”

“I am a half-blood, yet that does not make me any less powerful than any other Pureblood heirs. It only means that I still have much to learn, as I have ten years of experience to make up for,” Harry looked around the room. He was satisfied to see everyone’s attention fixated upon him, tracking his every move with something akin to wonderment.

Both Flint and the other boy have risen to a seated kneeling position, taking in his words.

“Power is given to those who seek it, not those with the purest blood,” Harry intoned, straightening up so that he appeared to tower over over the entire room, despite his physically small stature. 

The air in the Common Room undulated with the swirling of the crowd’s magic, rising up in response to Harry’s own. He felt a thrill run through him at the sensation of so many different magical signatures brushing up against his own, hungrily seeking out the addictive taste of his magic.

“Slytherins are hated because of ambition. Ambition garners fear, because the greatest of powers often falls to the most ambitious. Without ambition, even the purest of bloodlines amounts up to nothing,” Harry’s gaze settled once more upon the two fifth years on the ground. “What’s your name?” He turned to Flint’s companion, who stiffened under his questioning. 

“R-Rowle,” the boy muttered, “Cicero Rowle.”

“Rowle,” Harry tilted his head in thought. “One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

“Er- yes,” Rowle looked away, unable to meet Harry’s bright green eyes.

“Are you the eldest?”

“I’m an only child.”

Harry blinked. “So you’re the heir to one of the oldest lines of wizarding Britain.”

The boy gave a hesitant nod, the shaking of his body intensifying.

Harry stepped back. “Then perhaps you should start acting the part, no?”

“Yes,” Rowle rushed to agree, voice laced with fear. “Yes, I should.”

“Will something like this happen again?” Harry asked once more, gaze flickering from Flint to Rowle. Both boys shook their heads frantically, hunching into themselves. “Will it?” Harry asked again, a harder edge to his tone.

“N-no,” the other two rasped out.

“Good. I won’t repeat myself,” Harry straightened, shoulders relaxing and expression softening, draining the tension from the room. “And one last thing.” The two fifth-years glanced up. “Don’t ever even insinuate that I’m the ‘Light’s poster boy’ again. Or I’ll not be this lenient.” He looked Flint and Rowle directly in the eye, promising unadulterated pain should his command go unheeded.

Both were only too eager to agree.

“Very well,” Harry smiled. Then, as quick as the strike of a viper, his hand darted out and lightly tapped Flint on the center of his forehead. The boy fell back at his touch, crumbling to the floor. A flicker of alarm crossed Rowle’s expression, but before he could utter another word, Harry repeated the act, and he too sprawled across the floor in an unconscious heap.

The watching Slytherins were stunned, still trying to process what had just happened. Harry stood back, exhaling deeply. Flint and Rowle were both alive, of course. They were wizards, unlike the pathetic orphans all those years back who dared to hurt him. Their magic may prove useful to Harry’s cause in the future, and he simply didn’t see any point in giving a severe punishment when they mostly stuck to verbal insults, and never managed to cause him any harm.

“They’re only sleeping,” he said aloud to no one in particular. 

It wasn’t exactly untrue. He has rendered them unconscious, but their minds were still awake, and for the entirety of the night, they would be caught in a debilitating paralysis. It hadn’t taken much effort on his part-all he had to do was disturb the natural flow of their magic with a jolt of his own. Nevertheless, it should prove sufficient to prevent the two boys from ever even thinking of attacking him again.

A splatter of red on the ground caught his eye. He stared down at the smudge of blood for a moment before turning around. “Who’s in the fifth year dorms?”

Hardly a beat passed before a few hands rose, shaking slightly as his attention turned to them. “Take Flint and Rowle back to their beds. They’ll be up in time for tomorrow’s lessons.”

The students didn’t hesitate to do as he asked, crossing the room and working together to move the two slackened figures with impressive efficiency. Harry glanced towards the nearest group of second-years. “And clean up the blood. Professor Snape said to not leave a mess.” They moved equally as quickly, driven on partly by the smirk that Harry was sprouting.

It was done. He has shown the other students a sliver of his magic, and he already knew that it would be more than enough to set him up at the very top of the Slytherin chain of command. 

From this point on, he would no longer have to tolerate the hateful glares throughout meals or the jabs to his parentage he knew were being whispered behind his back.

Harry revelled in the drunken reverence with which the majority of his audience regarded him with. He wondered if this was what Tom Riddle has felt all those years back when he had done the same.

For a fleeting moment he caught sight of Draco’s wide-eyed stare, and he felt a brief tinge of disappointment that the blonde would probably be too fearful of him to banter with him in the same easy manner as he had for the past week. He pushed the thought aside-he was accustomed to being alone anyway, so it wasn’t as if this would make much of a difference.

Instead, he crossed the Common Room and headed out the doors. The weight of the others’ uneasy yet admiring gapes followed him as he slipped into the stairwell. 

A sharp smile split his face as soon as he was out of view. 

Seeing all those expressions directed towards him was exhilarating. It was vastly different than when he had to assert his own positions among the children at the orphanage. Here, they were submitting to his magic, rather than out of fear for the unknown. Here, they feared him, yes, but at the same time, they would also respect him for his power. 

Harry grinned, feeling his magic settle contentedly around him. With this, he knew that the gears had finally begun to turn. He’s made his move. Now, he’d sit back and watch all else unfold. 

 

 

* * *

 

Albus Dumbledore beamed from his seat at the middle of the staffs’ table as the students began to stream in for supper. It had been a relatively peaceful start to the school year, and if he was to be honest, one that brought him and the other members of the staff great relief.

Young Harry Potter was a brilliant student-that was a consensus among all the professors, even Severus, albeit reluctantly. Despite having been sorted into Slytherin, Harry was still amiable to other students who have approached him. He was clever, respectful, and carried the same intelligent spark in his emerald eyes that Dumbledore had seen in Lily’s many years ago. At the same time, the occasional smirk and mischievous grin that he sported while speaking with the Malfoy heir would remind Dumbledore so much of James in his youth that rendered him speechless.

Harry Potter was a perfect mix of two of the most brilliant students he’s ever had. To be truthful, there was also a third, but that was something that Dumbledore strove to avoid dwelling upon. 

But it was difficult to do at times, especially as the two shared the same shade of hair and eyes, and as young Harry had taken to wearing his school uniform with robes open and vest unbuttoned. 

Dumbledore had nearly choked on pumpkin juice the first instance it’s happened during breakfast several weeks ago, but he’s grown desensitized since then. It’s simply a rebellious streak, he told himself, just like James.

But that was hardly all. Harry’s mannerisms, the way he carried himself, his speech, the reverent handling of his wand-it all reminded Dumbledore all too much of another orphaned Slytherin half-blood boy that had sat in these same halls several decades past. 

As desperately as he pushed himself to ignore the similarities, at times he would still see a flicker of that familiar dark smirk out of the corner of his eyes or that patented demeaning sneer overlay Harry’s impassive expression, and his blood would chill. It was as if the ghost of Tom Riddle has returned in the form of an eleven-year-old Harry Potter-and wasn’t that an awful thought. 

Nevertheless, Dumbledore never allowed himself to associate the two, even in his own mind. He pushed down on his worry and paranoia. After all, he told himself, there was bound to be similarities when the two grew up in practically the same environment. Besides, inbred elegance, intelligence, and having an advanced vocabulary wasn’t a crime. Harry has yet to bloody his hands-or cause any harm at all, as far as he knew. The same couldn’t have been said for the eleven-year-old Tom Riddle.

As a small figure-the same one currently plaguing his mind-strode in through the doors of the Great Hall, Dumbledore forcibly put a stop to his spiralling thoughts. 

No, young Harry Potter was nothing like Tom Riddle. 

He was the son of Lily and James Potter, a quiet prodigy with a hidden propensity for mischief, and a natural at flying, if Madam Hooch was to be believed. He was, in all manners, the perfect combination of Lily and James. Dumbledore felt his panic ease at the thought. That’s right. If anything, he should be thankful that growing up at an orphanage hadn’t managed to curb Harry’s potential.

The only worry he had at the moment was the young boy’s lack of friends. As far as he knew, the only ones Harry ever spoke to was Draco Malfoy and the Weasley twins. But the twins spoke to everyone, and it was clear that they were nothing more than acquaintances. The Malfoy scion, on the other hand, wasn’t someone Dumbledore had envisioned being Harry’s closest friend. Yet, he admitted that it was better than him having no one at all. 

Most of the other first years had already settled into their own small groups, but Harry was still alone most of the time. Seeing Harry walk unaccompanied down the aisles and sit at the far end of the Slytherin table only served to strengthen his concerns.

“Albus, are you listening?” Madam Hooch’s clipped voice drew his attention.

“My apologies, Rolanda,” Dumbledore smiled good-naturedly, “You were saying?”

“Well,” the sharp-eyed woman began, “I was just trying to convince Severus to persuade Mr. Potter to join the Slytherin Quidditch team. They’re currently using their reserve, are they not?”

Severus Snape turned stiffly to eye the boy sitting across the room, far apart from his fellow housemates. “First-years cannot join the house teams. Mr. Potter already has an inflated enough ego without us having to aid him by breaking a centuries-old tradition to showcase his natural talent,” the potions master sneered.

Dumbledore knew that the other man shared his reservations when it came to judging Harry. For most of the time, Harry’s behaviour echoed that of Lily’s, and it was impossible to miss. It was only during rare moments when hints of James would shine through.

Unfortunately, it seemed that Severus was still unable to let go of past enmities. He seemed to be adamantly ignoring the fact that Harry was Lily’s son as well, instead choosing to focus on the fact that Harry was just about an exact replica of James appearance-wise. Dumbledore sighed, knowing full well that Harry would be receiving little care from his Head of House whilst in Slytherin.

Madam Hooch scoffed. It was so unexpected a sound from the normally uptight professor that Dumbledore’s eyes snapped to her.

“Oh, please. That is hardly a tradition and we both know it,” she said, lips pressing together. “It’s normally more a matter of lack of skill than anything else, and the fact that it could be detrimental for the student’s grades.” Her hawkish gaze landed on Harry and her expression softened somewhat. Dumbledore understood the sentiment-she, too, had known James and Lily before their untimely demise. “But Mr.Potter’s currently at the top of every class, so that should negate the problem.”

“It may be the case,” Severus drawled, “But I have no sway over the decision of the Slytherin team captains. In case you haven’t noticed, Potter doesn’t quite get on well with his fellow housemates.”

Dumbledore’s thoughts drifted from the other two professors’ argument when the doors opened once more, and a group of Slytherins marched in, their expressions oddly solemn despite being perfectly hidden behind their normal masks. Dumbledore watched the procession with mild interest, and he noted that Severus had taken notice as well.

It wasn’t until then that he had noticed how empty the Slytherin tables were in comparison to the others. But soon, green-and-silver-tied students slipped in one by one, walking quickly to their seats. The students seemed to be conversing in hushed tones with heads lowered, and Dumbledore had a distinct feeling that something monumental had shifted.

Then, Draco Malfoy had walked in alongside his friends, being all heirs and heiresses to prestigious families. Rather than striding arrogantly to take his seat by Harry’s side as he normally would, the boy hesitated, before slowly making his way over. Dumbledore leaned forward, observing the way Draco’s friends paused at the other end of the table, making no move to sit.

It almost appeared as if they were waiting for some sort of…signal? The sight was eerily familiar, yet at the moment Dumbledore couldn’t quite determine where he’s seen it before.

Instead, the headmaster and the positions master both watched as Draco approached Harry and spoke with him, a nervousness to his posture. Harry must have said something reassuring, for the other boy eased up and he seated himself on Harry’s right. At last, the blonde turned around once more and gave an almost imperceptible nod to his friends. The group of Pureblood children, known for their etiquette and pride, practically scurried over and pushed each other aside to settle into their chosen spots.

Dumbledore’s brows rose into his hairline.

It didn’t take a genius to see that they had all strategically placed themselves so as to be as near Harry as possible. The change was all too clear, in comparison to the previous days when the Purebloods had avoided him and turned their noses up at his presence. That haunting sense of deja-vu surfaced once more, and the realization of what it was came all too suddenly.

This was almost an exact reenactment of that eventful day in Tom Marvolo Riddle’s third year in Hogwarts, Dumbledore realized with a start. It was the day that he had gone from ‘filthy mudblood’ to ‘m’lord’. It was the day that he had done the unprecedented, when he had toppled the Slytherin ranks, torn down and rebuilt the Slytherin hierarchy with himself, a nameless half-blood, sitting smugly above even those from the most ancient Pureblood families.

Dumbledore blinked as he felt the table shift beneath his hands. Only when he glanced down did he realize that it was his own arm that was trembling. He looked towards Severus, and saw, reflected within the other man’s eyes, his own worries multiplied tenfold. He promptly looked away, taking in a deep breath in an attempt to dispel his rising unease.

No, he was simply jumping to conclusions. Just because young Harry had somehow managed to earn the respect of his peers, didn’t mean that he was the second coming of the Dark Lord. He was simply being paranoid. He was seeing connections where there was none to be made.

He riffled through his memories, looking for anything that could have caused this sudden change in attitude, anything that could-

“‘He doesn’t quite get on with his fellow housemates’, eh?” Madam Hooch echoed, a smug lilt to her voice. “It seemed that his performance today in flying has somehow managed to change that. Wouldn’t you say, Severus? Even the other first years recognize talent where credit is due.”

Dumbledore felt his mounting agitation loosen. The professor’s words cut through his thoughts, bring along a dose of much-needed relief.

Of course…that would make sense. Slytherins valued skill, especially one that could bring benefits to the House. 

After his many years teaching at Hogwarts, Dumbledore has long learned that the fastest way to scale the Slytherin ranks other than through birthright was through their Quidditch team. Naturally, the Slytherins were set on ensuring that the Hogwarts Quidditch cup remains with their House, as it had for the past few consecutive years. 

It would explain the behaviour of the other students. They haven’t treated Harry all that well since the term begun-it was to be expected that they would be nervous that Harry would reject their friendship.

Dumbledore took a long sip from his goblet, silently berating himself How could he have ever suspected something so sinister of Harry Potter, son to Lily and James?

As he looked to his side, he saw that the potions master still remained as pale and tense as before. Obviously, he was unconvinced by Madam Hooch’s reasoning. But Severus being suspicious, especially towards James’ near clone, was nothing new. Dumbledore smiled and set his anxieties to rest. It was at this moment that Harry’s head lifted and their eyes met.

Dumbledore beamed over his half-moon spectacles, and the boy returned a crooked smile that erased the last vestiges of his worries. With that, the Headmaster stood and addressed the students, signalling the start of supper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is all for chapter 6!
> 
> Dumbledore meant well-he really did. But good intentions don't always bring good results.
> 
> And Dumbledore must have seemed somewhat desperate to believe in the good of Harry's heart. Because he was. Desperate, that is. At this point, Dumbledore would probably choose to believe in Harry even if all evidence worked against him. After all, the hope of the Light is resting on Harry playing the part of the hero.
> 
> (Unfortunately for them, Harry may have other plans)


	7. Accusations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry makes his views on Wizarding Politics known.
> 
> Snape confronts Harry, noticing all of the right signs, but making all of the wrong connections.
> 
> Harry contemplates.

Dinner, Harry mused, had altogether been rather interesting. More than several students from the other Houses, and even some professors as well, had caught on to the subtle change that had taken place within Slytherin House. 

Harry had gone from being ignored to being avoided. And it wasn’t out of a lack of interest on the other snakes’ part, but rather, the fact that the others knew they had no right to approach Harry unless they had something to offer him. Draco’s exclusive group comprised of the few who did, and they latched onto the opportunity rather quickly. 

Harry admitted that he was surprised when Draco fell so easily back into the routine of their easy friendship, even after witnessing what he was capable of. For all that, Draco _was_ the heir of a Pureblood Dark family and had a father who was always waist deep in politics. So, he supposed Draco was no stranger to ruthlessness and violence.

The most intriguing part of the whole ordeal, needless to say, had been the professors’ reactions.

Snape had positively _fumed_ , and looked as if he would have liked nothing better than to stalk over and drag Harry from his seat and cast him out of the castle. Madam Hooch had seemed proud, and Professor McGonagall appeared to be relieved, if only at the fact that Harry seemed to have gained new friends. 

Oddly enough, even the incompetent and stuttering professor Quirrell had taken notice. Harry caught the turbaned man’s thoughtful eyes and looked away, discomfited by the all-too-knowing glint he saw within the man’s expression. But what would he know of Slytherin politics and the subtleties of the house hierarchy? Harry knew the professor to be a past Ravenclaw, and not a particularly exceptional one, at that.

Still, it was _Albus Dumbledore’s_ reaction that had taken the icing on the cake, needless to say. The old man had looked stricken when the implications of the new seating arrangements sunk in. Harry thought that the headmaster may have been a breath away from a heart attack, and was admittedly somewhat disappointed when it didn’t happen. The man must have come to some convoluted conclusion on his own, Harry determined. 

Dumbledore, for all his twinkling eyes and wise preaching of house unity, was irrationally suspicious when it came to the Slytherin House. Harry had caught more than a few dark looks cast his way from the man over the past few weeks, and he knew that he himself wasn’t the cause. Dumbledore’s eyes would always glaze over, as if he wasn’t seeing Harry at all, but when he caught himself, the grim sharpness to his gaze would recede to be replaced by warmth once more.

Harry wondered if it was simply a matter of him being in Slytherin that had the man so concerned, or if there was any specific individual he reminded him of. To his recollection, the only dark wizard to share a history with Dumbledore was Lord Grindelwald. However farfetched, it was still a possibility.

All in all, Dumbledore seemed to perpetually struggle with casting Harry in a positive light. Harry almost wanted to scoff at the man’s desperate self-delusions, but it did work in his favour. As long as he doesn’t do something too excessive, he knew that the Headmaster would still see him as the muggle-raised boy hero that he wanted him to be.

Harry blinked away the thoughts, tuning back into the conversations going on around him. It was after dinner, and he, along with Draco’s group, was sitting around the obsidian fireplace back in the Common Room. He sat in the central seat directly facing the hearth, with the others settled in various spots before him.

Initially, the others, being Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Daphne Greengrass, and Pansy Parkinson, had acted awkward around him, but they seemed to have finally relaxed within the past hour.

“-It's absolutely preposterous,” Draco was saying, sneer set firmly in place. “The nerves of the man!”

“Draco, he’s the minister!” Daphne chastised, though Harry could tell there was no heat in her words.

“So what?” Draco scowled. “He still has no right to _barge_ into the ancestral homes of a Pureblood family-especially not _mine_!”

“We’ll all have to bear with it,” Daphne said quietly. “The legislation’s already passed.”

“No thanks to your parents.”

Before another fight could breakout within the Common Rooms that day, Harry cut in. “New legislation?”

He glanced between the two, both of whom sank back down to their seats under his gaze

“There was a Wizengamot assembly today,” Daphne explained after exchanging a look with Draco. “Dumbledore’s side proposed for there to be yearly auror visits to Dark Pureblood households to search for any illegal dark artefacts.”

“Or family heirlooms,” Draco interjected glumly. 

Daphne didn’t correct him. “The majority was in favour. It would be put in place as of next September.”

“And Greengrass’s parents _supported it_ ,” Draco continued, levelling an incriminating glare at the heiress.

“Oh, for the love of Salazar, they didn’t ‘support’ it!” Daphne snapped, “They had no choice! After the whole disaster last time, their every political move would be watched closely! And unlike _some_ , we can’t afford to buy off every official _and_ the minister!”

Draco bristled, but didn’t push the matter, choosing to instead slump back into the black sofa. “It’s ridiculous.” He muttered. “Haven’t they targeted us enough? And that crackpot old fool Dumbledore-acting all high and mighty, when he relied on an _infant_ to win him his war-”

Daphne coughed loudly. Draco started, eyes darting to Harry. “Er, no offence intended.”

“None taken,” Harry waved it off. “And you haven’t said anything wrong. It’s sad, how those within the highest positions of power can be so lacking in common sense. Personally, I question the Light side’s naivety. How is it that they so easily believed Dumbledore when he said that a child managed to bring down a man that even he can’t defeat?”

A moment of stunned silence passed.

“You mean to say…you don’t think you’re the one who defeated… _him_?” Daphne spoke up, her face twisted in a strange sort of expression that Harry couldn’t quite decipher. 

Harry shrugged. “Whatever the case happened that night, I certainly didn’t take an _Avada Kedevra_ to the face and reflect it through the power of my scar, as some so inanely believe. The Dark Lord was the most powerful wizard of his time-what was I to do against him? Whatever happened, I reckon that it had little to do with me.”

The other Purebloods were staring back at him with open interest, consideration in their eyes. Blaise, Theodore, and Parkinson have even broken off from their separate conversation and turned to him.

Daphne’s eyes were more shrewd. “You called him the Dark Lord.”

Harry returned a cryptic smile. He knew that it was a title that was used mainly by his supporters. Even within the Slytherin dorms, people were hesitant to call him as such out of fear of being labelled as a Death Eater sympathizer.

“Personally I’ll never be caught dead saying _You-Know-Who_ , or _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_ -that’s just pathetic,” he raised a brow. “Besides, he _was_ the Dark Lord. No matter what you call him, you can’t change that fact.”

“You don’t seem all too against him, Potter.” It was Blaise who spoke this time. His dark eyes peered out curiously. “With what’s happened…one’d have thought you’d be one the forefront opposing everything he stood for.”

“That’s because I’m not,” Harry answered seriously. He knew that the other boy wasn’t questioning him out of malice, but rather testing the waters. It was as good a time as any to make his own opinions known. “To be honest, I don’t see the problems with the Dark. If anything, I’d say that the Light side is causing more harm than good by putting all these restrictions on magic.”

“Strange that, of us all, you’d be complaining about the Light, isn’t it?” Daphne snipped.

Draco stiffened next to her, eyes flickering nervously to Harry as if in preparation for his retaliation. 

But Harry only hummed in reply, sitting back as relaxed as ever. He could easily discern the emotions of the others, and up until then, he has sensed no animosity. And as long as no one purposefully challenged or attacked him, he would remain cordial, as well.

“Really? I’ve always thought that my reasoning is rather sound. Why should I blindly follow Dumbledore when he is the one who cast me off to be raised in the muggle world and kept me in the dark about my origins until my eleventh birthday? Why should I willing join a war that never concerned me? To avenge my dead parents who I never knew? To boost the confidence of fools who believe it possible for a new-born to best a Dark Lord?”

Harry saw his audience stir uneasily. It was clear that this wasn’t a conversation that the other snakes were comfortable with having, especially with _Harry Potter_. Nonetheless, the topic had been breached, and Harry wasn’t one for wasting opportunities.

“I’m not against the Dark Arts,” Harry finally stated. The blunt statement jolted the other Slytherins, and he smiled at the reaction. “I’m not against Light magic either, but I do find the Light side’s chosen methods rather…irksome.”

“That’s a gross understatement,” Draco muttered. Unlike the others, he already knew of Harry’s stance on magic, so he hadn’t appeared all too surprised by the proclamations. “Albus Dumbledore…that barmy old clod is going to be the death of all Pureblood traditions, mark my words.”

“How can you accept both the Dark and the Light?” Theodore spoke for the first time since Harry’s met him. 

Harry glanced at the quiet boy, taking in the stiff set of his jaws and the hardened glint in his eyes. _Ah_. Theodore _Nott_. He recalled reading about the Dark family whose matriarch was brutally killed by aurors in the First Wizarding War. It was no wonder that Theodore seemed to hold the Light in such contempt.

“I don’t think you quite understand,” he began, meeting the boy’s eyes and ensuring that he kept his gaze free of any negative emotions. “Light magic is quite a different matter than the ‘Light Side’. Personally, I find it ironic. Most of Dumbledore’s followers actually have grey cores, did you know that?”

“And yet they still label everything Dark as ‘evil.’” The Parkinson heiress sneered, stiffening slightly when Harry’s attention drifted to her. “They’re all hypocritical, prejudiced, and content to be led around by the nose by _Dumbledore_. It’s a wonder that they had enough independence to survive past their Hogwarts days. A shame, really.”

“Pansy,” Daphne chided. “Don’t speak so carelessly.”

“I’m only stating the truth,” Pansy rolled her eyes. “Light Magic is _soft_. There’s a reason why mother wanted to send me to Beauxbatons, but father would have none of it. _Hogwarts is a family tradition_. In _my_ opinion, it won’t be for much longer, with the Light at the helm.”

“And you all agree with that view?” Harry asked curiously when no one retorted.

“Naturally,” Draco answered, brows furrowed in annoyance. “Mother originally planned for me to go to Durmstrang. She thought Hogwart’s education was beginning to lag behind. Father disagreed.”

Theodore averted his eyes, but it was obvious that he shared his friends’ views.

“The Light has its merit, though,” Daphne tried to argue.

Pansy glanced at her sceptically. Draco was more verbal with his disagreement. “This isn’t the Wizengamot, _Greengrass_. I suspected that all your family’s pandering up to the Minister may have muddled your mind, but I didn’t know it had gone _that_ far.”

The heiress pursued her lips. “Cool it, _Malfoy_. As if your own father doesn’t do his fair share of pandering. You’re just too stubborn to think objectively.”

“There is _nothing_ objective about this,” Draco hissed, leaning forward in his seat. “You know what I see? I see wizarding traditions _corrupted_ by meaningless muggle holidays, family thrown into Azkaban for standing up to their beliefs, Pureblood lines _dead_ because the _Light_ fear their practices! And now they want to raid _my home_? Tell me how _exactly_ am I supposed to be objective about this?”

Harry watched the scene unfold with growing fascination. With every passing moment, he found himself increasingly glad that he had followed the Sorting Hat’s suggestions and gone to Slytherin. He knew that this was the next generation of wizarding politicians, and if he wanted to make changes to their society, they were the ones that he _must_ have on his side.

Daphne opened her mouth, but no words came out. She inhaled, before looking pleadingly to Blaise. 

Harry suddenly realized that this was a subject that the group often argued over, and that they had long since formed sides. _Interesting_.

“Come on, Draco,” Blaise murmured, resigned. “The Light side’s suffered equally during the war. If we had won, do you think Dumbledore would be allowed to walk out of Hogwarts a free man?”

Harry blinked in surprise at the casual use of ‘we’. It seemed that the Zabini heir already trusted him enough to not judge him for his political alignments.

“I don’t understand how you and Daphne can be so _forgiving_ ,” Draco narrowed his eyes at the two. “Why don’t you bugger right off to Hufflepuff, while you’re at it.” This was evidently a sensitive matter for the young Pureblood, and it wasn’t a surprise, considering that practically half his extended family had been thrown into Azkaban after the war ended.

Blaise sighed wearily. “How will pitting yourself so stiffly against the winning side help? As of now, there’s no point to the Dark even attempting to resist. We can’t afford to be emotional. This is all just politics. Plain and simple.”

“I find this all rather pointless,” Harry said at this point, and five pairs of incredulous eyes snapped towards him. He tilted his head. “All of you are so caught up on the concept of ‘sides’ that you’re entirely missing the point.”

He glanced around the group, waiting for anyone to object. When no one did, he shifted forward and continued, gaze focused. “There are only good and evil when it comes to people. The Dark Arts is neither, and the same can be said for Light Magic. After all, a tool is a tool. There is no need for that kind of distinctions.”

Harry’s hand fell to the armrest, and his wand slipped out to rest within his palms. “If I asked you now, would you say that this wand is good or evil?” His gaze swept across the Slytherins. “If I so wished, one of you could be several limbs short within a blink.” Ignoring the startled expressions on the other students, he pushed on. “By the same token, I can save a drowning man with a single flick of the wrists.”

The others stared back blankly.

Harry inhaled, letting his magic sweep out around him in a veil of calm. He waited for the slight droop in the first-years’ shoulders before continuing. “A wand is a tool, much like magic is a tool. Magic is sentient, but it feels no right and wrong. It depends entirely upon the witch or wizard that casts the spell. Magic has no good or evil-there is only Dark and Light. Both magics can harm as easily as they can heal. The only difference between the two is that, whereas Dark Magic feeds the emotions of the castor, Light Magic is fuelled by it. Think of the Patronus charm-it entirely relies upon the castor’s joy to function. Now, think of the Unforgivables. The reason why so many become so easily addicted is because they are unable to cope with their emotions suddenly magnified tenfold.”

He smiled as he saw comprehension dawn on the others’ expressions. Draco still appeared hesitant, but Harry didn’t expect any of them to change their entire belief system overnight. It was already good enough that they were seriously considering his words. “This is why Grey witches and wizards are advised to dabble in both Dark and Light magics, so that the emotional amplification from the Dark Arts will balance out the emotional drain from Light magic.”

“I can’t believe I ever doubted your Sorting,” Blaise broke the silence, drawing murmured agreements from the others.

“That’s right,” Draco puffed up enthusiastically. “I told you guys that Harry is a Slytherin through and through. I’ve known since the day we met in Diagon Alley.”

Harry laughed at Draco’s antics. It seemed that just about everything could become a point of contention for the Malfoy heir, even the status as Harry’s first friend.

“Where did you expect me to be sorted, if not Slytherin?” Harry asked the group, muted amusement dancing across his features.

The Slytherins exchanged awkward glances.

“Surely not Gryffindor?” Harry smiled lightly. “Then you might be surprised to learn that that was the one House the Sorting Hat didn’t even bother considering for me.”

“That’s…” Blaise visibly grappled for words. “…Unexpected.”

“Is it really?” Harry questioned. “We’ve been in the same classes for over a month, now. I’d have thought Slytherins would be more perceptive than to label me a Gryffindor simply because of some absurd title.”

“The Boy-Who-Lived,” Draco smirked.

“Nearly as bad as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,” Harry’s lip twitched. At first, there was a moment of stunned silence. But soon they were all sporting small grins, the tension from the previous argument all but dissipated.

But the peace was a fleeting one. Suddenly, the door to the Common Room slammed open. Over a dozen pairs of curious eyes blinked over from all around the room as none other than the Head of House himself stomped in, dark robes snapping ominously around his heels. 

 

 

* * *

 

Despite what others may think, Severus Snape always protected his own. That, naturally, included the entirety of Slytherin and its students. Well… _most_ of its students. Harry Potter, the scion of James Potter, neither was needing nor deserving of protection-the boy had made that all too clear that night.

Severus gritted his teeth as he descended the stairs towards the dungeons, fearing the worst. He knew better than anyone what James Potter was capable of inflicting upon those that crossed him. Why would his son be any better? He refused to stand by on the sidelines while the _golden boy_ reduced his students to a bumbling mess that he knew first-hand James Potter was known to do. 

The absence of his two upper years was more than enough to cement his fear. The few older students he had managed to track down were unable to tell him more than the fact that the other two have decided to turn in early. But he knew that that wasn’t all it was. They were fine before dinner, and the last he saw of them was with Potter. 

If there was one thing Severus Snape refused to believe in, it was _coincidences_. Add onto that the mixed reaction from the rest of the students… _well_. He wasn’t feeling optimistic about the situation. _At all_.

When he murmured the passcode and swept in the Common Room, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was expecting. But he knew that it certainly wasn’t the sight of a spotless room that looked exactly as it had the last time he’s visited, not a chair out of place. He didn’t know if that made it all better or worse.

His line of sight glossed over the room and finally came to a stop at the conspicuous group seated near the hearth. That head of messy black hair and rounded spectacles stood out terribly amongst the other immaculately styled and dressed Purebloods around him, and Severus briefly wondered why they even deigned to associate with the boy. Nonetheless, it was no time for reminiscing, and so he resumed his steps and stiffly made his way over.

He had felt the pinprick stares of the other students the moment he entered. However, all of the gazes were politely retracted once it was clear that he was heading towards Harry’s group. That alone spoke volumes of the boy’s newly gained influence within Slytherin House, and it was something that the Potions Master did not want to dwell upon at the moment.

“Professor,” Harry smiled, pulling himself up as Severus neared. 

The change in his posture was hardly perceptible-the slightest straightening of the spine, a tilt of the head, a shift in the shoulders. Yet, it seemed to make all the difference. Within a blink, the lazy elegance from moments prior was replaced by a distant aloofness that toed the line of disrespect. The other Purebloods around him sensed the shift, and their own body language mimicked his almost immediately.

Having been a snake himself, Severus was well-versed in Slytherin mannerisms. And so, the staunchly collective front that the other heirs and heiresses put up for the Potter boy against him- _him! The Head of Slytherin House!_ -was largely unsettling. Still, he knew better than to let slip even the slightest sign of weakness around James’ son.

“Mister Potter,” Severus’ lip pulled back in an ugly sneer. He looked down at the group, face perfectly blank of any emotion aside from derision, which was cast solely at one boy.

“How may we help you?” Harry asked, obviously suppressing a smirk. His _friends_ around him stirred, eyes boring into the professor’s. Severus resisted the temptation to simply turn around and leave. He had been prepared to confront Harry Potter, son of James Potter and the obnoxious new hero of the Wizarding World. He had not been prepared for the recriminating stares from the sons and daughters of his own close friends and associates, and even his own _godson_.

“Well, Mr. Potter,” Severus drawled, ignoring all else save for the Boy-Who-Lived, “That display tonight at dinner was certainly… _something_.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,” Harry said easily. His glinting eyes, though, were enough to show that the boy understood _perfectly_. “You’re going to have to elaborate. _Professor_.”

Severus felt something within him strain and snap at the familiar tone that reminded him all too well of his childhood bully.

“Arrogant and disrespectful,” Severus snarled, stopping a mere step away from where Potter was seated. “Strutting around like you own the castle…Thinking you could get away with anything-Just like your father.”

To his surprise, Potter gave no reaction at all besides a minimal widening of the eyes. Even that was more of an expression of mockery than it was one of surprise. The other Slytherins stiffened. Draco’s mask slipped, his furrowing brow showing the extent of his displeasure.

“Excuse me, professor,” Harry leaned forwards, suddenly the perfect attentive student. “But is there anything you need of us? I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, and I don’t recall having acted in a way that is deserving of such accusations.”

This new attitude, if at all possible, made Severus even more uncomfortable. He knew he was being ridiculed by the boy. Yet there was nothing in Potter’s expression, tone, or body language that indicated as such.

“You know _exactly_ what I’m talking about,” Severus levelled him with a piercing gaze that would’ve had any other first-year flinching back. “Flint and Rowle were absent during supper. Imagine my surprise when, having asked their year mates, I was informed of their sudden _affliction_. Have you nothing to say for this particular incident, Mr. Potter?”

Harry Potter, to his credit, was the very embodiment of innocence. He tilted his head, as if he had to think before giving a proper answer. “No, sir,” he finally looked up and gave a small shake of the head. “I’m not close with any of the Slytherins in the upper years, so you’ll probably have better luck asking someone else.”

The perfectly pure smile on the eleven-year-old’s face might have fooled even him, had he not seen the slight smirks exchanged amongst the other Purebloods.

“ _Potter_ -”

“Professor.”

Severus startled, finding that it was Draco, not Harry, who had decided to cut him off mid-speech. Whatever reprimand he had prepared died in his throat. Of course, he had been prepared to dock points and assign detention should Potter be incensed into acting up or talking back. But he had never thought that _Draco_ would be so quick to pick Harry Potter over him. He stared uncomprehendingly at his godson, a sinking sensation settling in his chest.

“With all due respect, Professor,” Draco said, respectful tone offset by the chilling steeliness of his eyes, “You could simply ask Flint and Rowle themselves tomorrow at breakfast.”

A long minute passed in complete silence.

“If there’s nothing else, Professor,” Harry sat back, bestowing him one last saccharine smile before turning his gaze elsewhere.

One by one, the others, too, looked away. It was as clear a dismissal as any. Severus stood there for another moment, before turning on his heels and departing from the Common Room.

Once the Common Room entrance had rippled close behind him, he slashed out his wand with a silent snarl. The curse flew out, sputtering out in dark fizzles once it hit the stone wall. It sent a stab of tingling numbness up his arm, but he ignored it in lieu of his growing rage.

Just who did Potter think he was!?

Does the stupid, conceited boy truly believe that he himself was the vanquisher of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? He knows nothing of Lily’s sacrifice, of the Order’s sacrifice throughout the entirety of the war- _he knows nothing_!

Being the Boy Saviour must be getting to the Potter heir’s head, not that Severus had expected any different. The potions master sneered. He was James Potter’s son, after all. And now, he’s got the rest of the Slytherin Purebloods under his thrall.

_Pseudo-Marauders_ , the thought came unbidden. Severus tightened his grip on his wand, turned, and stormed down the corridors. Whatever the case, it would all be resolved the next day. He knew his students well, and if Potter truly did something to Flint and Rowle, he hadn’t a doubt that they would inform him the following morning.

Potter would get what’s coming to him, Severus swore. He refused to allow the other Slytherins to suffer through the same treatment he had to endure throughout his Hogwarts years.

 

 

* * *

 

“He looks downright murderous,” Draco murmured, sneaking glances towards the professors’ table.

Harry smiled, sipping from his mug of tea. They were seated in the same arrangement as they had the previous night, with Draco to his right and the others around them. At the moment, Theodore as pouring over a new book his grandfather had sent, and Daphne and Pansy were gushing about some article from the latest edition of _Witch’s Weekly_.

Breakfast was a much more relaxed affair than dinner had been. The rest of Slytherin House returned to its normal calm after seeing Flint and Rowle walk in, both unharmed aside from dark circles underneath their eyes. The younger years, naturally, still treated him with awed wariness, but that was to be expected. The upper years didn’t seem to hold him in the same regard, but they no longer looked down on him either, and that was enough for him.

Snape, much to Harry’s amusement, leaped up and pulled Flint and Rowle aside the moment they stepped past the threshold of the Great Hall. The following interrogation lasted for the better part of ten minutes. When the two boys finally returned to the Slytherin tables, they gave Harry slight nods. On the other hand, the potions professor looked increasingly frustrated by the minute. The then proceeded to spent the rest of the meal alternating between glaring towards Harry and scowling down at his plate.

“Snape really hates you, doesn’t he?” Blaise gave a lopsided grin, the only other Slytherin in their group aside from Harry who found the situation more humorous than it was concerning.

“He _abhors_ me,” Harry agreed, setting down his mug. He swept his gaze over the professors and blinked when onyx eyes met his and narrowed. “I was being truthful when I said I haven’t done anything that should concern him.”

“That’s an understatement. He treats you like a Gryffindor,” Draco muttered, as if that explained everything. Which it sort of did, considering the sourly professor’s attitude towards anyone from the house of the lions.

“He treats Harry _worse_ than the Gryffindors,” Blaise corrected. He looked up conspiratorially, dark eyes twinkling. “Did you see how eager he was when Flint and Rowle came in today? Or how disappointed he seemed when he couldn’t get anything out of them?”

“Which makes one wonder-just how bad would his reaction be if he has to give me an O in Potions?” Harry tapped a finger against his chin. “However hard that may be. I've got a feeling he won’t be making it easy.”

“Pity,” Blaise chuckled, “The one professor that the Great Harry Potter can’t win over.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco interjected. Harry turned at the blonde’s stiff tone. “Harry can partner with me for Potions-that way he can’t unfairly dock your marks. Or else he’ll have to do the same for me, as well.”

Harry found his appreciation of the Malfoy heir growing. He knew how much the other boy respected his Godfather from their first conversation at Diagon Alley, so the fact that Draco chose him over Snape was already proof enough of how important Harry’s friendship was to him.

“That’s a rather roundabout way of asking someone to be your potions partner,” Blaise ribbed, and laughed when Draco’s smug expression morphed into a deeply offended one.

“It’s a _mutually beneficial arrangement_! Harry’s the best in the class-anyone can see that. Besides, you’re with Theo and Daphne is with Pansy. What am I to do? Brew with _Weasley_?”

“Draco’s got the right idea,” Harry said before the argument could escalate. “Personally, I’m all for it. Lest Snape decides to pair me up with one of the Gryffindors, _again_.”

“Then it’s settled,” Draco nodded, grey eyes aglow with smug satisfaction. 

Blaise raised a brow. “I never took you for one for House rivalries.”

“I’m not,” Harry shrugged. “But surely you’ve noticed how utterly atrocious some of them are at Potions. Finnegan, for one.” Draco and Blaise winced in unison at the disaster that was the previous practical lesson. “Or even Longbottom. He practically trembles whenever Snape so much as walk past him.”

“ _Longbottom_ ,” Draco rolled his eyes. “He’s a right coward, that one.”

“Which is surprising, given who his parents were,” Blaise noted.

Harry tilted his head, curiosity piqued. Blaise must have noticed his expression of interest, for he elaborated.

“Frank and Alice Longbottom. They were two of the greatest Aurors in the war against You-Know-Who. They were sent to St. Mungo’s after having been put under a prolonged Cruciatous curse, however. Courtesy of Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Draco’s nose wrinkled at the mention of the name. Harry filed away the reaction for later consideration, before turning his attention back to Blaise. “‘ _Were_ ’? Are they dead, then?”

Blaise hesitated. “Well, no…”

“But they might as well be,” Draco finished, “There’s no cure for their sort of insanity.”

Harry mulled over the newly acquired information in his mind. While he had done extensive research into the prominent Pureblood lines and the last wizarding war, he had somehow glossed over the majority of the Light families. 

Thinking back, that had been a clumsy mistake. One that he would have to amend as soon as he is able. Most of the books he’d bought either didn’t mention traditionally Light Pureblood families at all or disregarded any recent history. The Longbottoms had been labelled as blood traitors as far back as a century, so it was no wonder that he had learned nothing of Neville’s family.

“So he’s an orphan,” Harry murmured. _Just like him_. Both their parents had been war heroes, sacrificed for a cause that they had believed in.

“He grew up with his grandmother,” Blaise continued.

“Longbottom has my sympathy,” Draco’s lips twitched. “Augusta Longbottom-she’s one scary hag.”

Harry’s mind drifted as the other two conversed on, gazing over to where the Longbottom heir sat hunched over his breakfast. There seemed to be a gap between him and the other Gryffindors, and with the way he acts, it was no wonder. In fact, it was quite surprising that the boy even managed to get sorted into the House of red and gold.

Still, he and Harry were so similar, yet at the same time, they couldn’t be more different. A part of him wondered just how easily their roles may have been reversed, if the Dark Lord had gone after Neville’s parents and Bellatrix Lestrange had gone after his own. Or if the Dursleys hadn’t left him at the orphanage and killed whatever yearning he may have had for familial love. Or if he hadn’t retaliated against those children all those years back and instead bore with their mistreatment.

Would he now be the one sitting isolated at the Gryffindor table, desperate for acceptance? Would he have resigned himself to being the Light side’s hero simply because that was what was expected of him? 

It was a morose line of thought-one that he didn’t want to pursue.

Harry tore his eyes away from the other boy and stood from his spot. There was no point to wondering over _what-if’s_. 

Draco and Blaise followed his lead while Daphne, Pansy, and Theodore hurried to pack away their readings. He waited until they were done before heading out.

“We have Charms first,” Daphne recited once they were outside the Great Hall. “I’ve heard that we’ll be learning to unlock today.”

Pansy groaned. “Are you for real? I haven’t even gotten the Levitation spell down.”

Harry led the way, letting the idle chatter wash away his tension. None of the others noticed his thoughtful silence all the way to the Charms classroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter is done! Updates have been slow as of late (exams season..whooo...) but I'll still try to write as much as I can!
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr for important in-between-update notices!
> 
> URL: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theslytherinprefect
> 
> Cheers!


	8. Samhain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Samhain, and Harry makes some new friends (if you can call it that).
> 
> Snape fumes, and Dumbledore worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I want to apologize for practically disappearing since my last update. 
> 
> A family emergency came up and I've been struggling through that for the last few months. It was a stressful time for me but the worst of it is over now.
> 
> I haven't been on my AO3 account until recently and I promise I will get to replying to every comment, even those from December! While I'm here, I'll also just say that: none of my current works are abandoned. I have an outline (however vague) for them and I will continue updating them. Hopefully, that may put some of your worries to rest.
> 
> Many thanks to TheRogueHuntress for beta-ing! The chapter is much-improved thanks to her edits and suggestions.
> 
> Once again, thank you for your patience and ongoing support. I hope you'll enjoy the new chapter!

The morning of Samhain dawned crisp and cool. Harry trod down the hall with a sullen Draco trailing behind him. The air was suffused with the sickly sweet smell of pumpkin pastries and jack-o-lanterns drifted through the corridors, cackling whenever students walked by. Draco’s expression soured with each Halloween decoration they passed.

Harry found himself split between being amused and sympathetic towards his friend’s ire. A part of him knew that the Hogwarts celebration of Halloween instead of Samhain was deemed as sacrilegious by most of the Pureblood children, and shared in Draco’s annoyance. But, a larger part of him was content to simply bathed in the gentle thrum of Hogwarts’ magic, which seemed to be amplified tenfold on that day. He also couldn’t quite stop himself from being drawn into the festive atmosphere of the castle, as he had never experienced Halloween in full prior to arriving at Hogwarts.

“This is ludicrous,” Draco muttered underneath his breath, “and completely, utterly _pointless_. Instead of Samhain, what do we have? Pumpkins, cobwebs, and _sweets_.”

Harry’s lips curved upwards in a slight smile. “It’s not so bad if you ignore it.”

“Ignore it?” Draco scoffed drily. “Not bloody likely, unless I rip out my eyes and place a silencing charm on the entirety of Hogwarts. I swear, if not for the other professors...”

Draco’s quiet complaints continued until they stepped into the corridor leading to the Charms classroom. Just as they left the stairwell, a figure collided into them in a blur of black and red. Draco yelped and stepped back just in time.

Everything happened in a blur.

Hermione Granger turned to him, mouth shaping around an apology and eyes widening with recognition. His glasses slipped, snagging on his robes before tumbling towards the ground. Instinctively, his hands splayed. Magic coursed through him, more habit rather than effort.

In retrospect, that had been a foolish mistake. His glasses slowed mid-fall until it hovered mere inches above the floor. He bent down and scooped it up in one fluid movement, sliding it back on. 

Granger’s eyes bugged and her mouth fell open. Her startled gaze met his impassive one; he watched as her expression went from one guilt to shock to recognition, all the while her mind dredged up a conclusion that hit too close to reality for comfort.

“Was that wandless casting?” she breathed.

There it was again—the astuteness that she had proven herself capable of in their previous interaction.

Harry kept his face purposefully unimpressed as he looked back to her.

“Don’t be daft. Ever heard of accidental magic, Granger?” Draco replied for him, breaking their stare. He turned cold eyes onto Granger and patted gingerly at Harry’s robes as if brushing off dust. “Watch where you’re going next time, why don’t you?”

Granger’s jaw grew taut and her chin jutted out in silent defiance. However, the shrewd light didn’t leave her eyes. Harry had the distinctly uncomfortable sensation that she was seeing him in an entirely new light. It was the same glint that had shone in her eyes when they had first met on the platform.

A swell of annoyance passed through him; at that moment, he would’ve liked nothing more than to pull Granger aside and ask–– _demand_ ––to know what exactly she had seen and thought.

“Let’s go.” He said instead, giving her a curt nod and stepping into the classroom.

“Know-it-all,” Draco muttered behind him.

The other Slytherins were already sat in their seats, and they waved Harry and Draco over as they walked in.

Harry settled down next to Draco, who busied himself with pulling out his textbook and rearranging his quills.

“I don’t think you’ll be needing those.” Harry gestured to the enlarged feather sitting atop their table.

“Ah.” Draco’s brow twitched. “Fantastic.”

Harry raised a brow at the other’s sarcasm. Draco had been the most excited amongst them at the prospect of learning to levitate, but it seemed that his irritation was managing to quell his enthusiasm.

“Alright, class!” At this moment Professor Flitwick scurried in, several thick tomes floating behind him. With a swish of his wand, the books stacked themselves at the front of the class. “Today, we’ll be practicing the Levitation Charm. In pairs.” 

At that point, a bout of whispering broke out as everyone sought to partner up with either friends or those more adept at charmswork. The Slytherins and even a few Gryffindors glanced hopefully to Harry, attempting to catch his eye. Draco looked ready to duel anyone else who wished to be Harry’s partner. It was common knowledge that Harry was one of the top students in Charms. Professor Flitwick himself boasted to anyone who would listen that Harry was the most talented student he’d had since Lily Evans was in Hogwarts.

Before any actual argument broke out, Professor Flitwick spoke once more.

“For today’s exercise, I will be pairing you off based on your performance so far in the class.”

The room quieted instantaneously. Professor Flitwick glanced around satisfactorily, before unrolling a scroll thrice his height and naming the pairs. The other students waited with bated breath while Harry simply sat back. It didn’t matter to him who he ended up having as a partner, as long as they were prepared to focus on the course material. He sat up as his name was called.

“Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom.”

A series of quiet groans rippled throughout the room. Neville jolted upright, eyes blown wide as if he had just been hit with a particularly nasty stinging jinx.

Harry met the Gryffindor’s eyes questioningly. For a moment, Neville seemed utterly lost. Then, realizing exactly where they were, he tumbled out of his seat and scrambled over, hesitating only when met with Draco’s glower.

“Draco,” Harry sighed.

The blonde held the glare for another moment, before scoffing and looking away.

Neville slipped into the seat on Harry’s other side.

Soon, Draco’s name was called, and he cast Harry a rather pitiful gaze as he slunk across the room to where Seamus Finnegan sat. Soft murmurs filled the room before growing to a droning chatter. Harry turned, preparing to speak. But before he could—

“Sorry,” Neville blurted out.

Harry turned, head tilting. “For what?”

“You’re the best in the class.”

“Pardon?” 

“You’re the best in the class. And Professor Flitwick partnered everyone based on skill.”

Harry stared blankly back, expectant.

“And I’m the worst. I know it. _Everyone_ knows it. You don’t deserve to get saddled with me.”

As Neville spoke, Harry’s brows gradually rose. He had expected to be ignored, feared, worshipped, or even hated. He hadn’t expected an apology. It was… surprising. Intriguing.

“Show me, then.”

“W-what?” Neville blinked.

“Show me,” Harry repeated, looking pointedly down at the feather. “If you’re as awful as you say you are, that’ll be the end of it. And if you’re not… well, trust me when I say that, either way, I’ll know.” 

Neville shrank back, a blotchy red colouring his cheeks. “Er… I don’t… I’ve never… I’ve never levitated before.” 

Resisting the urge to sigh, Harry pushed the feather towards him.

“I’m not asking you to cast the spell. I’m telling you to _try_.”

Neville’s eyes flickered between the feather and Harry, as if suspecting that this was all some sort of elaborate set-up. Not that it was unjustified, given how some of the other Slytherins had treated him. Eventually, a flicker of determination lined his gaze, followed by resignation.

Wordlessly, he pulled out his wand. Immediate, Harry felt the clash. 

It was a palpable thing, a buzzing prickling of magic between Neville’s palm and his wand. His grip tightened, but the magic of the wand only further rebelled against his grip. It was like two currents running in opposite directions. Where the Gryffindor’s magic was soft and cooling, the wand’s was fierce and taut.

“W-wingardium Leviosa,” Neville enunciated. The feather didn’t so much as twitch. He slumped, fingers loosening around his wand and letting it fall to the table with a clunk. “See? I’m absolute rubbish at magic.”

“It’s got nothing to do with your magic.”

Neville huffed. “If you’re going to say that it’s all in my head…” 

“It’s not, I can assure you,” Harry cut in, brisk and to the point. “It’s your wand.”

“My wand? But it’s my father’s — ” 

“Precisely,” Harry leaned forward. “Look, there’s a reason why wands are never passed down as family heirlooms. It’s simply not done. Yours is a prime example of everything that can go wrong.”

Neville’s lip quivered, but Harry pushed on.

“Your magic is reacting with that of the wand, but not synchronizing. In all honesty, I’m surprised that the last attempt didn’t backfire, with how volatile the magic felt. You’re not your father, Longbottom. No one should expect you to be.”

“I’m just not good enough, is that right? I already know I’m not. I’ll never be half the wizard that he was. _Is_.”

Harry stared down at the other boy, face perfectly blank.

“Not if you keep on using that wand, you won’t.”

“What am I supposed to do, then?” Neville’s voice cracked. “It’s…it’s my father’s legacy. Gran gave it to me… told me to take care of it… to do my father _proud_ -”

“And the best way you can honour Frank Longbottom’s legacy is by being your own person. Do you think he would want his son to be a diluted shadow of him? Do you think he would want you to compromise your Hogwarts education for him?”

Neville froze, mouth half open and gaping. He floundered before seeming to find the words.

“You…you know of him.” It was barely a whisper.

“Of course I know,” Harry stated simply. “He is a brilliant Auror.” _But an idealistic fool and a terrible father._ Not that his own was any different. “And he would want the best for you.”

He sat quietly while the Gryffindor boy lowered his head, his choppy fringe hiding his face from view. Eventually, Neville looked up, and Harry was surprised to see that there was no sadness or self-pity in his expression. Instead, there was gratitude and raw openness.

“I’ll… I’ll think about it. Er… Harry? C-can I call you Harry?”

Harry tipped his head. “Sure. What is it?”

Neville blushed once more, averting his gaze.

“T-the levitation spell. You can cast it.” It was a statement, not a question. “Do…do you think that you can show me?”

Harry gave a huff of laughter. 

“Alright.” He held his wand loosely and spoke the spell, though he needed neither to levitate. “ _Wingardium Leviosa_.”

With a flick of his wrist, the feather was swirling up and around the room in a gust of wind.

“Perfect! Wonderful!” Professor Flitwick cried. “Excellent work, Mr. Potter! Ten points to Slytherin!” 

The other students didn’t bother turning around to gawk. They had stopped three weeks into the term, once it became clear that Harry never seemed to struggle with casting in the same way that many of the other first-years did. Now, they simply took it for granted that Harry would always be the first to perform a charm, successfully transfigure, or cast a jinx. The only reason that Slytherin hadn’t entirely monopolized house points yet was that he never bothered to raise his hand in order to answer questions in lessons.

“Wow,” Neville breathed, staring enviously up towards the hovering feather.

“You can do it too, you should know,” Harry said nonchalantly, putting down his wand. “Quite easily, in fact.” 

Startled eyes snapped to him. “What do you mean?”

“You have potential.”

“Because of who my parents are?” Neville’s eyes tightened, bitterness seeping into his tone.

“No.” Harry waved aside the words. “That’s irrelevant. I know because of your magic. I felt it when you tried to cast.”

The Gryffindor looked shocked.

“Your magic is solely yours, Neville,” Harry told him flatly. “There are Muggleborns with more talent than some Purebloods. Parentage has nothing to do with it. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

It wasn’t a lie. Neville _did_ have potential, in spite of his abysmal in-class performance and non-existent self-esteem. His magic was soothing and gentle, but it also had a hardiness to it, not unlike the robust vitality of wild plants. It was quite fitting, considering the boy’s aptitude for Herbology.

Neville gave a slow nod before smiling, his eyes lighting up.

“That’s the first time anyone’s told me that.”

Harry smiled back, albeit with more reserve.

Neville seemed to fumble over his words before he finally managed to choke out, “I guess what I’m trying to say is… thanks, Harry. You’re a good mate.”

Before their conversation can continue any further, a commotion rose from several rows back.

“You’re saying it wrong!” a sharp voice snapped.

Neville’s eyes widened and he twisted around, before flushing with embarrassment upon realizing that he was eavesdropping and ducking back down. Harry sighed but glanced back as well, admittedly curious. The pair sitting behind them, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, were both openly scowling, the former with resentment and the latter with impatience.

“You do it then if you’re so clever,” Weasley snarled.

Granger harrumphed and pulled back her sleeves, motion clipped but practiced as she flicked her wrist and pointed her wand at the feather.

“ _Wingardium Leviosa_.” 

At first, nothing happened, and then the feather gently bobbed upwards, as if blown by a constant draft. Weasley’s face twisted further with anger, if at all possible. Harry was certain that he’d never seen so much fury manifested in one scowl, even directed towards himself. 

“Great job, Ms. Granger!” Mr. Flitwick wasted no time in scurrying over, slapping his hands together contently. “Ten points to Gryffindor!”

Granger beamed with pride while Weasley scowled darkly. The contrast was almost comical and for the rest of the class, the tension between the two only grew. 

Neville didn’t try to strike up another conversation. Harry gladly left him to his thoughts, opting instead to pull out one of his unread books. Once they were dismissed, the other Slytherins drifted back to where Harry sat, and Neville made a quick escape.

“What a complete dolt,” Pansy sniggered.

“Better him than Finnegan,” Draco scowled, brushing the soot from his robes. “Salazar knows how he managed to _explode_ when casting a bloody Levitation Charm.”

Harry hummed. “If I remember correctly, he once blew up his breakfast tea.”

“Another miracle,” Draco sneered. His gaze turned mournful as he regarded his slightly charred tie. “No amount of repairing charms can salvage burnt silk.” 

“You have a dozen more. I’m sure you won’t even notice it’s gone.” Daphne rolled her eyes.

If anything, Draco’s grumbling only increased. Harry smiled amusedly at the exchange.

Together, they made their way out of the class. Behind them, Weasley was talking to—or rather, talking _at_ —another Gryffindor. 

“It’s no wonder no one can stand her. She’s a bloody nightmare. Merlin.”

Harry’s lips thinned. Children were so callously _cruel_ , even when unprovoked. He’d had years to come to terms with that fact; it hadn’t been a pleasant lesson to learn.

The next moment a figure quickly fled from the classroom, bushy hair billowing behind her tragically. Weasley jolted at the sight, shoulders hunching defensively. 

_Children_ , Harry thought, feeling vaguely disappointed. Having Pureblood origins evidently didn’t equate having tactfulness. 

“Poor dear,” Pansy simpered, sounding anything but sympathetic.

Harry ignored his housemate’s gossiping as they pushed through the corridors.

A part of him almost felt bad for Granger. After all, he of all people could understand how awful it was to be the victim of others’ envy-driven abhorrence. Nevertheless, he’d learned to tune it out. If Granger couldn’t do the same, and soon, then things would only get progressively worse.

But Granger was no concern of his. Her magic was nothing spectacular, and she idolized authoritative figures to a nearly extreme degree. What Harry was looking for were those with ideals and drive, not a tape recorder to recite every Hogwarts class back to him.

She was clever, yes, and she was perceptive. That could become quite problematic, but he didn’t need to intervene _yet_. As of the present, she was nothing more than an overachieving Muggleborn attempting to fit into a world that was not her own.

 

 

* * *

 

 

By the end of the day, Harry was beyond fatigued. It was tiring to sit through hour after hour of beginner theory and abstract concepts when he had already read through the textbook and mastered the spells. 

The workload for the first year was ridiculously light. The only course that Harry had to exert effort in was Potions, and even that was only barely harder than the rest of the courses. Besides, it was only due to the fact that anything less than perfection would result in merciless criticism and docked grades from Snape. 

As he rounded the corner, he paused in his tracks.

 “-as if a Mudblood like you ever had a place here,” Pansy’s jibe echoed through the empty halls.

“I have as much right to be here as you!” Granger’s voice trembled and Harry didn’t need visuals to know that the girl was close to tears. “Just because you’re from some snobby line of _purebloods_ doesn’t make you any better than me- ”

“Doesn’t it?” Harry could hear the sneer in Pansy’s retort. “I’ve had just about enough of your high and mighty attitude. Strutting around acting as if memorizing a few schoolbooks has made you the next coming of Merlin. Do you _ever_ hear the words that come out of your own mouth? It’s no wonder you haven’t got any friends.”

Harry was almost impressed by the cutting efficiency of Pansy’s remarks. Each phrase was designed to hurt, and they obviously did, if Granger’s quickened breathing was anything to judge by.

“As if you’ve got any!” Granger snapped, voice quivering. 

“Me? That’s rich,” Pansy laughed. “Let’s get one thing straight, _Granger_. In Slytherin, we don’t have friends. There are only the people that matter and the ones that don’t. Either case, I know that they’ve got my back, if only because of my family name. It doesn’t matter. One day, it’ll be because of _me_. 

There was a heavy pause.

“B-but that’s appalling. How can anyone live like that? If that’s what being a pureblood means, then I pity you. If that’s what being a witch is like, I’d rather live without magic.” 

Harry felt Pansy’s anger before spoke. Her magic flared, bright and acrid and terribly furious. At the same moment, an idea spawned within his mind, so quick and _obvious_ that he wondered how it had taken him so _long_.

“You dare, you filthy, _dirty_ -” 

“Parkinson. Enough.”

Pansy froze mid-sentence as Harry strolled up towards them. Hermione Granger was backed up against the wall, head lowered and curtained by a wave of frizzy hair. Silent sobs racked her body.  Her bag was at her feet and her textbooks were strewn across the floor. Pansy stood a mere arm’s length away, wand held up threateningly and eyes blazing with hate.

Pansy inhaled deeply before spinning around to face Harry.

“Didn’t you hear what she said? The filthy mud-” 

“Come on, Pansy,” Harry chided. “You mustn’t stoop so low.”

His voice was laced with warning, and Pansy, trained in etiquette and subtext, caught on immediately. 

As if only just remembering who exactly she was speaking to, she reared back in terror.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to…”

Granger was staring at them now, her eyes dazed and confused, and tears streaming down her face. 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Pansy’s expression flickered, from fear to surprise to suspicion all in the space of a blink, before finally snapping back to her expressionless mask. She turned, stomping down the hall and around the corner, Slytherin robes fluttering angrily behind her.

“Granger?” Harry called out, keeping his voice level. 

Granger stiffened ever so slightly but she looked up all the same. Her eyes were reddened and her face was pulled in a determined scowl, but Harry didn’t miss the one expression that he knew to use all too well: vulnerability.

“Gran— no, Hermione,” he said as he stepped forward slowly, purposefully morphing his expression into one of concern. “Are you alright?”

“It’s none of your business!” she snapped, but instantly seemed to regret it as tears welled up in her eyes once more.

Harry took a moment before responding.

“Really?” He leaned against the wall. “I consider it my business if you’re going to have a full-on melt down right in front of me.” 

“Come to make fun of me?” Hermione let out a shaky exhale. “Come to finish what your _friend_ started? I should’ve known better than to expect anything more from a Slytherin-” 

Harry looked quizzical. “What has this got to do with Slytherin? I thought this was about Weasley. And Pansy, of course, but she’s always like this, so you shouldn’t let her get to you.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, red-rimmed and shining with surprise. Her lips parted but she remained silent.

“I heard what he said at the end of the Charms.” Harry stepped closer, letting his magic leak out, saturating the air around them. “If it helps, I don’t think he meant it. He’s been looking guilty the entire day. You shouldn’t take his words to heart. Pansy, now, she’s prideful and vain and malicious. Even Daphne takes everything she says with a grain of salt. I’m just… surprised.”

“Why?” Hermione questioned, clearly annoyed. “Do you think her above insults and bullying?”

“Not at all. I know she can be downright vicious, but… it is unexpected that you care so much.”

“What?” Her attention was focused solely on him, now.

Harry shrugged, rearranging his expression into one of open sincerity. “It seems strange to me that you’d let something she says affect you so much. Especially since everyone knows that you’re a brilliant witch.”

Hermione’s mouth opened, and closed, and opened, but no words came out. Finally, she inhaled deeply, and blurted out, “You think I’m brilliant?”

Harry could see her expression laid bare across her face—disbelief, desperation, a tinge of caution, and what looked to be the beginnings of admiration. His magic swirled around them, but Hermione didn’t seem to notice anything.

“Of course. All the professors do, as well. It’s hard not to.”

For a moment they stood in silence. Hermione was the first to speak.

“Why did you help me?”

“Do I have a reason not to?”

Hermione hesitated. “But… I’m a Gryffindor and… you’re a _Slytherin_.”

“Yes, and so was Merlin. What’s your point?”

“But… you’re _Harry Potter_.”

“So? Doesn't stop people from talking about me behind my back, does it?” 

Hermione looked thrown, but the next moment, she was smiling tentatively. She murmured something, so softly that it was nearly inaudible.

“Come again?”

“You’re unique. In a good way. And not just for being the Boy-Who-Lived, either,” Hermione repeated, a blush creeping up her cheeks. “When you were first sorted into Slytherin, everyone in Gryffindor was saying… well, I suppose you’ve already heard. I’m sorry to say that I had thought that some of it were true.”

Harry shrugged. “I’d be more surprised if you didn’t. I try not to let the rumours get to me.” He paused. “And you shouldn’t, either.”

Hermione blinked. He watched as the last of her cautiousness vanished.

“...Thanks. It means a lot to know that someone cares.”

Her smile broadened, becoming more sincere. Harry felt the slightest shift in her magic. It softened, becoming more pliant and trusting. A faint tinge of fatigue followed as the tension drained from her posture.

That was all he needed.

“Say, Hermione,” he murmured, and with a spike of his magic, a dazed look bled into the girl’s eyes. “Can I ask something of you?”

“What is it?”

“One day, if I ever need a favour—anything that I might need your help with—would you do it?”

“A-a favour? From _me_ ?”

“Yes. Something that only you can help me with. But I'd understand if you don’t-”

“…Yes. Yes, of course. Of course, I’ll help you. Anything at all.” 

“Can you promise me?” Harry turned around fully to look Hermione in the eyes. Her gaze was still unfocused, but when she met his eyes, she gave a firm nod.

“Yes. I promise.”

“Thank you, Hermione.”

Her eyes shuttered closed. Magic tightened around them for a fraction of a second before settling, and Harry could feel the weight of the oath sinking in.

Just for good measure, Harry waited another moment before retracting his magic, keeping his expression amiable as he stood.

“Are you feeling any better?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, then blinked, as if she hadn’t expected it. Her eyes drifted, taking on a dazed sheen. “Oh. Surprisingly, yes. Much better, actually.”

“That’s good. Now...will you be alright on your own?”

Hermione jolted out of her trance, looking up at him with understanding.

“Yes, I’ll be fine.”

"That's good to hear. Well, I guess I should probably get going, then."

Before he could turn, however, a hand was suddenly on his wrist. Harry tilted his head, looking curiously back at the Gryffindor girl. Hermione's eyes widened and she pulled her hand back hastily.

"I...I'm sorry," she rambled. "I don't know what came over me. That was..."

"What is it, Hermione?" Harry asked, voice soft.

She hesitated, then seemed to make up her mind as she met his eyes.

"Harry...we're friends...aren't we?"

There was a terrible hopefulness in her expression, something that bordered on desperation. Harry felt the agitated buzz of her magic, saw her fingers clenching painfully tight into her palms.

Slowly, he smiled. "Of course we are. Need you even ask?"

Hermione went limp, all of the anxiety and uncertainty seemingly dispersing at his words. She gave a shaky smile of her own but it couldn't mask the tears prickling at the corner of her eyes.

"Thank you, Harry. I'm sorry for keeping you."

“See you around, Hermione.” Harry smiled, before shouldering his own bag and striding down the halls at a brisk pace.

He could feel her gaze linger on him until he turned into the stairwell. There, he halted, leaning his head back against cold granite and breathing in deeply. A beat passed.

Several things happened in quick succession. The warmth in his eyes faded, so completely that it was hard to imagine that it had been there in the first place. His sympathetic expression peeled away like a second layer of skin, leaving behind a mutedly gleeful smile that was mostly self-satisfaction and part incredulity. His relaxed and friendly posture straightened to his usual, effortlessly elegant stance.

That had almost been too easy.

Hermione desired recognition and acceptance. He knew that—he himself had known exactly how it felt to crave acceptance, to hunger after any form of recognition with a vengeance. But that was a thing of the past. He remembered his earlier days in the orphanage, when all he wanted was someone who cared for him and accepted him. 

For a short while, he had been sure that if he ever made a friend, he would gladly do _anything_ for them, and he would do anything to keep them. But it had soon become clear that there would never be someone who truly _understood_. And so, he stopped trying. If he would never have someone there to watch his back, then he would simply have to be strong enough to do it himself.

It didn’t matter, he had told himself. It meant one less weakness for others to exploit. 

But he had grown more resilient since then. Stronger. No longer was he the boy standing at the edge of a crowd, seeking validation and sympathy when there was none to be had.

Harry had long since learned that the best time to strike was during another person’s lowest point, and compulsion worked in similar ways. There would have been no better opportunity than this first moment that Hermione had given in to the pressures of those around her and let down her walls, opening herself up to him.

Really, he ought to be thanking Pansy.

Once, Hermione Granger might have had the potential to pose a threat to him. But no longer.

Harry exhaled and leaned back, dizzy with the heady rush that always followed an intensive wandless casting. When he looked up once more, his eyes were bright and a smile tugged at his lips. It was different than his usual—it was less controlled, sharper somehow, and it gave an edge to his childish features. He pushed himself off the wall and strode towards the Great Hall, a lightness to his steps.

He had almost forgotten how good it felt to do _real_ magic.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Granger’s staring at you again,” Draco muttered, peering darkly towards the Gryffindor table. 

“She never stopped,” Blaise pointed out, waggling his dark brows. “Looks like you’ve got yourself an admirer, Harry.” 

“As if he hasn’t enough of those already,” Pansy grumbled.

They were seated at the far end of the Slytherin table, with Harry between Draco and Blaise, and Daphne and Pansy sitting across from them. They were halfway through dinner, but Harry had already long since pushed his plate aside in favour of a textbook and a scroll of parchment. Theodore was absent, but that wasn’t anything new. It was practically routine for the boy to forget meals while camped out in the library.

Harry raised a brow at the other Slytherins’ prodding. “Hm, is she now? I hadn’t noticed.”

He looked up from his half-completed essay and met Hermione’s eyes. She visibly flinched, cheeks flushing before she slouched down, hiding behind the other Gryffindors.

“Harry?”

“Hm?” Harry turned to Draco, masking his expression of all internal turmoil.

“You seem awfully distracted.”

Harry raised a brow. “I’m never _distracted_. I’m restructuring my paper.”

“You haven’t written a word in ten minutes,” the blonde remarked.

“I’m about to,” Harry picked up his quill and pointedly dipped it in the jar of ink.

Draco seemed dissatisfied, but Daphne cut in before his questioning could continue.

“What is it, Pans?”

They turned in tandem towards her. Pansy was staring across the room, brows knit in concentration. There was a strain to her expression that gave her an air of severity, and for a long minute, she looked more the part of a pureblood heir than a first-year.

“Pansy?” Daphne called out again, louder this time.

“There’s something wrong with Granger.”

Harry’s quill paused on the page.

“Something other than her existence?” Draco jeered nastily.

“Oh, come off it, Dray,” Pansy muttered. “I’m being serious. Just— _look_.”

Harry glimpsed over at the Gryffindor girl again. She was no longer gawking at him, but the tension in her frame lingered.

“What is it?” Draco asked impatiently. “I don’t see what you mean.”

_Oh_. Harry did, and he wondered how _Draco Malfoy_ could’ve missed it.

A quick inhale of breath told Harry that Daphne saw as well.

“Of all people, Draco.” Daphne breathed, vocalizing Harry’s thoughts. “I’d have thought that you would know. You’re already an Occlumens, no?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, lips thinning. “What has that got to do with anything?”

“Good grief, can you be any more oblivious? Look at her!”

Hermione Granger sat there, barely touching her supper and deaf to the jabbering of her housemates around her. There was a glazed-over sheen to her gaze that could only have come from magical compulsion.

It should have worn off _minutes_ after Harry had left. He’d only compelled Muggles in the past, but he imagined that it shouldn’t be much different. Was mind magic somehow more potent against witches and wizards than it was against Muggles?

If so, then… Harry mentally shut off that line of questioning. It wasn’t the time. 

Anyone worth their galleon could spot the symptoms. He doubted many of the first, second, or even third years would be perceptive enough to notice, but there was no knowing with the older students. The professors, especially, wouldn’t miss such an obvious tell. This meant that he was in perilous territory. 

“She’s been compelled!” Pansy exclaimed when Draco didn’t immediately answer.

Silently, Harry set aside his quill, giving up the act altogether. None of the others were in the mindset to take notice of it, anyway.

“Compulsion?” The irritation in Draco’s eyes gave way to doubtful intrigue. He looked back once more, head tilting. His eyes widened, bottom lashes nearly brushing his cheek. “But that’s impossible.”

“No one short of a professor could have the necessary skill set,” Pansy demurred.

Blaise snorted. “‘A professor’? I think you mean to say Dumbledore or Snape.”

Collectively they glanced towards the High Table, where Dumbledore, eyes twinkling, was conversing with an exasperated Professor McGonagall. Snape was seated further away, staring unseeingly down at his goblet and seeming gloomier than on the worst of days. Nothing seemed out of the norm.

"No one else should be capable of it," Daphne argued.

“Is it really that difficult?” Harry frowned.

The other Slytherins gaped at him.

“Of course it is. And it’s very, _very_ illegal,” Blaise said stonily. “It’s like the Imperius Curse, but more permanent. And more irreversible.”

“‘Difficult’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.” Draco leaned forward, hands pressing flat against the tabletop and nearly knocking over his goblet. “Compulsion takes immense concentration and willpower. It requires in-depth knowledge of Legilimency, iron-clad control over one’s magic, and…and _power_.”

Harry remained perfectly expressionless, not allowing even a hint of his thoughts to reflect in his face. He remembered the first time he had consciously compelled someone to do his bidding—he had been just over six years old, unfocused and tired, and he hadn’t the slightest clue as to what magic was, never mind Legilimency.

It was before he had started trying to control his accidental magic, when he was still 'the boy around whom strange things happened', not 'the boy who _made_ them happen'.

All he’d had at that moment was desperation, desire, and belief, and that had been enough.

“None of which any students would have,” Daphne said.

“And the only known Legilimens within the faculty are Dumbledore and Snape,” Draco finished. “So it’s impossible.”

“Not impossible,” Pansy corrected, her voice growing gradually louder. “It’s improbable. Besides, professors are forbidden from using the Mind Arts on students. So, if there is someone else within Hogwarts’ walls who is able to compel-”

“Then we should be putting a quick end to this conversation before it draws any more attention onto us,” Harry cut in cooly.

With a flick of his wand, the parchment before him rolled up in a harsh snap. The others flinched at the sound.

He could see that a few of the Slytherins who were seated closer to their group were beginning to peek over curiously. When they met his eyes, they scooted back quickly, as if physically burned.

“I concur.”

The Slytherins startled at the sudden intrusion. Harry glanced back to where Theodore stood impassively behind them, a hefty tome tucked under one arm and satchel slung over the other. His dark eyes skimmed over them briefly and he made his way around the table, sliding into the empty seat beside Daphne.

“Look who decided to grace us with his presence,” Pansy sniffed.

Theodore’s unreadable gaze fell to her, scrutinizing.

“Whatever you were discussing, I could hear it halfway down the table. It doesn’t sound like a conversation to be had in the middle of the _Great Hall_.”

“Like that matters,” Draco scoffed. “The other Slytherins won’t talk—not if they want to _stay_ in Slytherin. And _they_ -” He nudged his chin toward the Ravenclaw table “-are much too obsessed with their books and riddles and sucking to their professors to eavesdrop on _gossip_.” 

“No, Theodore’s right,” Daphne said quietly. “We were being careless.” 

“It’s none of his business.” Pansy straightened, eyes lighting up in challenge as she regarded Theodore. “ _You_ weren’t even here. It’s not as if anything we say will implicate you.”

“No.” Theodore’s stare _blazed_. “ _Everything_ you say implicates me.”

“What are you-” Pansy jolted, visibly discomfited by the sudden acerbity to his tone.

“Don’t pretend it’s not true,” he continued, inhaling deeply. “You could be hundreds of miles away in Paris for all I care and if you so much as make a _slip_ as to where your true allegiance lies—do you really think you’re the only one they’ll be whispering about? _No_ , it’ll also be me, Draco, Daphne, Blaise—being who we are, we can’t afford careless mistakes. And yet, what do I walk in on? My blundering fellow _Slytherins_ , known for discretion, making baseless and _dangerous_ speculations without so much as a muffling charm.”

It was the longest that Harry had ever heard the boy speak. Suddenly, he saw why; the normally quiet and soft-spoken Theodore Nott was beyond livid—he was practically _seething_.

A heavy silence descended upon them as if they had only just realized what exactly they were doing. Harry glanced around, from Draco’s ashen face to Pansy’s stubbornly indignant and ghastly one. Daphne’s head was lowered, and Blaise was entirely expressionless—though his eyes were still tense.

Yet soon enough, their gazes were drifting back to the hunched form of Hermione.

Harry tensed ever so slightly, unnoticed by his Housemates. This was bad. He had been careless. What he needed now was a distraction, but he had no means of orchestrating one without drawing further suspicion onto himself. He needed-

Suddenly, the doors to the Great Hall flew open. Harry looked up, taking in the frazzled appearance of one Professor Quirrell. His face was waxen and he barely made it to the professors’ table before swaying unsteadily.

“Troll—in the dungeon—thought you ought to know.”

He disappeared from view, having collapsed to the ground. The hall quieted faster than Harry thought was possible. It lasted for all but one stunned, horrifying moment. Then, a plate shattered, and everything erupted into chaos. 

Harry’s lips curled up. _That should about do it_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Albus,” Severus stormed—or rather, limped angrily—into his office.

“Severus,” Dumbledore stared at Severus’s the blood-stained and tattered robes from where he sat behind his desk. A sudden chill went down his back, though he knew he had no need to expect the worse. If Tom had truly made his move, then he would no longer have a Potions Master.

“Albus, _listen_ ,” Severus hissed through gritted teeth. “Quirrell—you can’t trust him. He was there, tonight. After the troll—when everyone was cleaning up after _his_ mess-”

“Severus, my boy.” Dumbledore sighed. “You mustn’t be so quick in your judgements and accusations.”

“Why would he show up to _that_ place, exactly when he knew that no one else would think of going there? Why is he suddenly interested in teaching _this_ year?”

“Calm yourself—” Dumbledore raised a hand, but it only seemed to exacerbate Severus’s mood. 

“Don’t you tell me to _calm myself_ when there is nothing to be calm about! Quirrell is after the stone. I _know_ it, and if you refuse to see the truth for what it is-”

Dumbledore stood. “ _Listen to me_ , Severus. I’m not doubting your words.” He stared unwaveringly back into Severus’s coal-black gaze. “It is perfectly imaginable that Quirinus may desire the stone. But it is just as likely that you desire it as well.”

Severus straightened, on the verge of launching into another argument. Dumbledore continued on before he could. 

“It is just as likely with Filius, Minerva, and any other of those involved in its protection.”

For a minute they stood there, on opposite sides of the writing desk, motionless and utterly silent. Dumbledore was the first to move, letting out a fatigued exhale and slowly sinking back into his chair. However, Severus was the first to speak.

“I assure you, you should have no reason to doubt my— ”

“Don’t lie to me,” Dumbledore said sharply. “You know just as well as I—perhaps even better—of the miraculously restorative abilities of the Philosopher’s Stone, as well as the theories, both proven and unproven ones. A cure-all for diseases, a transmuter that can turn granite into gold, a catalyst for the Tincture of Life— " 

“I don’t meddle in necromancy,” Severus snarled, a fist slamming down atop the desk. The ink jars rattled from the force of his blow. “I would _never_ dishonour her memory like that! Don’t insult me by implying that I would.”

Dumbledore silently studied him, taking in the rare sight of brimming wetness in his eyes. It was a rare and unintentional show of weakness, especially from someone who usually presented himself as cold and uncaring as Severus Snape.

“You may not,” Dumbledore finally acquiesced, “But others might. I, myself, can see the appeal. Yet still, there are other factors. It has uses enough to tempt any soul—can you look me in the eye and swear on Lily’s name that you’ve never wished that the stone is yours? If only just for a chance to study it, or utilize it in a rare potion.”

He waited. Severus kept quiet.

“The appearance of the troll tonight was entirely unexpected, and I have no cause to suspect that Quirinus was behind it, however plausible. His presence in the third-floor corridor, while questionable, is not a terrible enough offence as to garner condemnation. As of now, the stone remains safe and protected,” Dumbledore said kindly. “While I hold you in confidence, my boy, it is not your place to openly denounce your peers. Quirinus will remain in Hogwarts. I cannot jeopardize the students’ education because of your suspicions.” 

A beat passed and a wounded expression flickered across the other man’s face.

“You are still leaving him be? Even after everything that’s happened? I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked of me, everything you’ve ever wanted—I’ve upheld my oath, renounced those who were once my closest friends, all to prevent _him_ from returning—yet still, you do not trust my word.”

Dumbledore’s features tightened for the fraction of a blink. Then he slumped forwards as if all of the weight of the Wizarding World had fallen upon his shoulders. In some ways, it already had, a long time ago.

“Have you truly kept your oath, Severus?”

“I-” Severus’s eyes narrowed and Dumbledore could see the gears turning in his mind. “Are we seriously going to talk about _Potter_ now?”

The disdain and loathing in his tone were unmistakable. Dumbledore stared back pointedly as Severus’s face twisted into a familiar sneer that was reserved for all things or persons related to James Potter, other than Lily.

“That tells me all I need to know.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” the Muggle phrase slipped out unbidden, as it always did whenever Severus was aggravated. “He’s an obnoxious and hateful mirror image of his father who does not need any further _coddling_. I promised to protect him, nothing else. You cannot ask any more of me than you already have. 

Dumbledore’s lips thinned, but he didn’t push the subject. Severus had a way with words, and if there ever was someone who could somehow survive an unfulfilled Unbreakable Vow, it would probably be him. The man’s spite towards James Potter ran too deep; nothing Dumbledore could say could possibly change his mind on the young Harry Potter.

Severus suddenly grimaced, fingers tightening in a white-knuckled grip around the edge of the writing desk. He shifted gingerly, obviously favouring one leg. Dumbledore frowned. With the turn their conversation had taken, he had completely overlooked the fact that Severus had been injured.

“You’d best head to the Hospital Wing,” he suggested.

Severus actually looked taken aback. “That’s it?” he demanded. “You’re going to sit back and do _nothing_ ? Even as the right hand of the Dark Lord wanders these halls this very second?”

“Don’t let your prejudice blind you, Severus. You know as well as I that Quirinus doesn’t have it in him to truly follow Voldemort, as his past Death Eaters have, never mind act as his right hand. I thank you for your warning, but believe me when I say this. The best thing we can do right now is to leave it be.”

Severus pushed himself up before letting out a huff of breath.

“Then, I hope that you are right, Albus. For all our sakes. 

Dumbledore sat unblinking until the Potions Master was gone, limping slowly into the corridors and letting the door shut behind him none too gently.

Unwittingly, the memory of the night of Halloween, 1981, drifted to the surface of his thoughts. That had been the last time he had erred, and it had cost him greatly—in fact, it had nearly cost him the Boy-Who-Lived, thereby nearly the entire war.

He removed his spectacles and set them aside. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he shut his eyes and hope that he wasn’t making yet another mistake.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Harry gets creative in his attempts to find out more about Tom Riddle.
> 
> Dumbledore and Snape are both drowned in their own delusions (but that's practically canon).
> 
> If you enjoyed the chapter, please leave some Kudos or comments; it'd mean the world to me! 
> 
> Until next time...


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